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yandere-wishes · 9 months

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𝕆𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕃𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

Summary: You try to escape from two fearsome Sith Lords. Surprisingly they take it rather well.

Author's note: This is totally getting a part 2. Or maybe a series we'll see.

Warnings: dark, absolutely no regard for the rule of two, sorta a vent fic (venting that these two are so fine and I can't get them out of my mind), slightly fluffy.

The empire's warships have a tendency to blur reality. The interiors of their large hulking exoskeletons house endless corridors and makeshift chambers. Vast, endless arrays of space. They've been optimized for housing droids, clones, and artillery. Not for escape, not for an endless search of a freedom that has long since eroded.

Calling yourself anything but desperate would be a lie. Your feet run to the chorus of your broken heartbeat. The need for freedom, the need to escape spreads through your body like a poison. You know it'll end up killing you, either from exhaustion or by their sabars. But you have to try, you have to run. Even if you've left fragments of yourself in the warm bed the three of you sleep on. Even if you forgot your heart under Anakin's pillow and your soul still lingers in Maul's warm embrace. Maybe freedom is worth cutting off pieces of yourself, if only in the hope that someday they might grow back.

There's something wrong with the corridors you're sure of it. You've never been one for directions, instead relying on the holo screens and navigation systems to lead the way. Mirror images as far as the eye can see. Identical, plain. Nothing substantial to store in your memory. There's something ironic about this situation, a punchline that doesn't quite land. You half haphazardly tug on the skirt of your nightgown, desperate for anything familiar. You're not sure why.

You remember how Anakin called you pretty this morning, still hazy, still clinging to the sensation of slumber. Perfect blue eyes too dazed to look at you. Really look at you. The chosen one gazes at your ghost, your ethos. the perfect doll he and Maul had morphed you into. Behind you

Maul pulls you to his chest. Hand running up and down her side, trying to resurrect you into his dreams. It's only when Anakin's eyes close, seeling the shimmering blue orbs, that you crawl out of bed and into the unknown.

You're lost, abandoned in absolute desolation. The marble tiles bleed frost into the soles of your feet. Somewhere in the distance, you feel a disturbance in the force. Too far away to matter, yet leaking with a potent rage that burns. It's hope you think, albeit pathetically, maybe it's better to capitulate this pointless crusade and wait for the Sith lords to find you. The crash comes just as you're about to stop. You bump into him, falling in the process. All armor and steel. The Stormtrooper's mask is off giving you a clear view of his scarred face. His eyes flash, some dreary emotion too obscure to read, he offers you a gloved hand, something human something casual.

You stare frozen.

When exactly did you stop comprehending human idiosyncrasies?

When exactly did you start reading every interaction as a threat?

He's a monster, you think, just like the ones you've been warned about. Lectured time and time again by both Anakine and Maul. Monsters pry on little girls, especially ones who wander off on their own. Monsters lurk behind unsuspecting walls, ready to pounce when their prey approaches. You wonder if, the definitive definition of "monster" could be passed on to the two Siths who call themselves your lovers.

There's blood, too crimson to be real. Metallic aromas wafted through the air. You've only now noticed how close the disturbance in the force really is. Close enough to distinguish itself. To reveal that, in actuality, it's not a disturbance at all.

It's two...

Something cold yanks at your forearm. Pulling you to your feet. for a split second, your nerves calm. The familiarity of the cybernetic arm grants you a heavy ease. Anakin pushes you over to where Maul is standing. Golden eyes burning holes through the stormtrooper's armor. 'He didn't do anything' you long to say. But the words wisely die on your tongue as Maul grips your shoulders. Anakine's saber is lit, stabbing through the soldier's armor as if it were flesh. As if killing him where as easy as killing a rogue thought. "You're quite a foolish soldier for daring to touch that which belongs to your commanders. Even more imbecilic for so much as looking at emperor Palpatine's disciple."

Maul's grip on your shoulders tightens, eyes never once leaving the bloodshed. One of his hands instinctively roams to your belly, then slides down to your thigh. Rubbing it ever so gently as his claws pierce your soft skin. You close your eyes trying to make yourself smaller. You hate how his touch grounds you. How the familiarity plucks at your heartstrings. When he touches you like this you wish you would forever rot in his arms.

"'I'm sorry" You don't know why the words come so easily. As if they've been itching to spill from your tongue. Maybe it's easier to say 'I'm sorry' rather than 'You've broken my perception of love, of reality and now I can only find comfort in your darkness.' "Hush" Maul's anger spills with every syllable. His claws dig deeper, earning him a pained hiss from his doll.

"You're not sorry, in fact, you rather enjoyed this didn't you? Running away making us chase you down, I never thought your species would enjoy being the prey so much, little one." Anakin walks over, saber seethed at his side. His every step promised pain, retribution. He's angry, furious. They both are, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, they'll end it all today.

Maul's chambers have always been a testament to Dathomir, bathed in deep scarlets and endless ebony. You wonder if he's homesick for a place he's only visited in his worst ephialtes. After the incident in the corridors, they drag you back to the Zabrak's room. Neither bothering to say a word. Merely permitting their rage to engulf you, subduing you into submission. It's an unwelcome surprise when they begin to prep for the day. Throwing on their black cloaks, prior to choosing your outfit. An abnormal affinity settles across the room. Too unnerving to go unchecked.

They dress you each morning, a ritual you think, some attestation of love that's never been quite right. Maul drapes you in velvet dresses. Each one harbors a sui generis softness that sits erroneously across your skin. Their opulent sensation only brings forth feelings of aversion and despair. Their softness an ode to your imprisonment.

the dresses come in shades of crimson, detailed sometimes in black, sometimes in gold, and sometimes in a frigid blue that sends shivers running up your spine.

Anakin fusses over your accessories, why they feel the need to dress you so extravagantly daily is beyond you -as you've come to realize many things are- On days when Anakin's hubris reaches its apex, he bathes you in gold. Astonishing glittering collars across your neck and Kuat bangles hanging from your wrists. When he's sober from his pride he chooses black diamonds. Simple and exotic. scintillate and opaque.

Allusions to the dark side.

A hidden reference that crawls inside you.

Once, back when you'd been sure defiance was still an option. Back when callow hope still dared to flow through your veins. Back when you'd been a jejune, stubborn thing. You had refused to wear one of the dresses they'd bought. Adimant in your refusal until Maul had stuck out his hand. Summoning the Force to remind you just who held the supreme authority here.

The Force had strangled you, clawing hungrily at your neck. You felt your bones caving in on themselves, watched with exacerbating hysteria as your feet abandoned the floor. He'd only released you when he was sure you were near death's adorned door. Permitting you to molder on the floor akin to a ragdoll.

Anakin had chastised you after you'd conjured enough strength to sit up, gasping greedily for air. He'd broken two fingers that day. One still harbors a small scar.

A Promise ring.

An augury.

There are days, few and far between. When they've deemed you've been behaving adequately for long enough. That they permit you the choice of which dress you'd fancy wearing for the day. It's a rare event, reserved as a special treat. You think it's their way of proposing variety, giving you the illusion of choice. Making you feel a little less smothered.

Today is not one of those days. Today, you feel them pick you apart, only to reassemble you in their image. Drowning you in extravagance. A reminder, one whose deprecating nature weaves itself within your muscles. You, little girl, are nothing more than a doll. And dolls should know their place.

No sooner do you feel the final lace fasten across your back, that Anakin is tugging you outside the door. Metal arm clasped around your forearm.

Maul follows behind molten gaze locked on your face. The hallways bend to their will as if the walls themselves quiver with their presence. You recognize this corridor, recognize the frigid forlorn.

There's something wrong with Emperor Palpatine's throne room. It's surreal, makeshift. His real throne lays somewhere cold, somewhere even his apprentices don't dare wander off to. The ironclad throne has never felt right. Never felt like it held any real power. Just terror, just dread, just hatred. But here it is in all its glory. Left to two apprentices who'd rather treat it as a toy than a sacred place.

Anakin dramatically throws himself onto the throne. One leg thrown over the armrest as he leans against the other. His other leg planted firmly on the ground. He keeps you steady on his thigh. Torturing you with his distant, disappointed look. Maul stands in front of you. His eyes liquid gold melting into you. You see the galaxy in them. Hear it whispearing secrets meant to be forgotten. It's Anakin's voice that rattles you from your disjointed thoughts.

"You caused us so much worry angel" he's being nice. You don't trust that. There's something sinister plaguing his words.

"You know Ani, she may cease escaping if you'd cease to spoil her." Maul leans down, gripping your chin and squeezing. " The brat forgets her place, merely cause you'd rather coddle her than discipline her."

Anakin glares, a shift in his eyes, blue bleeding into gold. "Hmm, Maul, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Kenobi right now."

"Why's that? Did the old fool tend to also point out your shortcomings?"

You wonder who this Kenobi is, as you watch the Siths' exchange crude childish vitriols. Maybe he'd make a better lover than the two men you have the misfortune of being adhered to.

They never could truly see just how similar they were.

Two sides of the same coin.

One born of copper, the other, black rose petals.

Subconsciously you reach out. Grasping Anakin's robotic hand, fiddling with the panel, peeling it away to gain access to the wires and circuits. You have a bad habit of ripping things open. Anakin learned this the first time he kissed you and you tried to gnaw at his chest with your nails. Not in malice, but rather to satisfy a ravenous curiosity. A raging need to open him and see just how he ticked. You'd wished to perform an autopsy on his soul. Rip him open and devour all his secrets. Back then you'd wondered if you could kiss sunrises into Anakin's eternal night. Strip him of bleak blackened skies and introduce him to stars and a moon that shines. He'd only vaguely permitted it. Opting to pluck the stars lying within you. Swiping them for steel and lava and other mundane things that fueled his incessant rage.

Anakin's head dips, lips pressing on your jugular vein. "You're ethereal" Anakin mubbles against your skin, like the dying prayer of a collapsing star. He's so pretty when he kisses your neck. Biting away pieces of you. Stealing your light for himself.

"Princess" Maul seethes venom pelting from his words. You realize you'd been ignoring him. Something he's not too fond of. "What in the stars was going through your pretty little head?"

he looks like he'd love nothing more than to wring your pretty little neck right now. "I just..." your words feel heavy. Tiny bullets polluting your tongue. It feels so cruel to say when you know just how much they love you. "I just wanted some freedom. Just a bit of space."

"Dumb little angel" Anakin chastes. You lower your head in embarrassment watching Maul kneel in front of you. He cups your cheeks, placing a soft kiss on your head. "You can never escape us beloved".

"I love you," says Anakin. All you hear is, I'll haunt you, I'll break your ribs one by one so that I may possess your heart. Maybe they mean the same thing.

"And I'm pretty sure if Maul could feel normal emotions like everyone else, then he'd love you too." You can't help but let out a giggle as Anakin throws his head back laughing. A rare melodious sound, that causes your heart to skip a beat. Maul merely rolls his eyes before pecking you on the lips.

You trace your fingers across Maul's chest, feeling the pummelling of two hearts. A double heartbeat. Two melodies entwined, You wonder who he harbors in those hearts. One for love and one for family. You nip at his bottom lip. Ushering the blood into your mouth. He tastes of Ichor and smoke. Of sadness and rage. From behind you feel Akanin bite into the hollow of your flesh. Leaving traces of himself upon your skin.

"Our pretty little problem" Anakin mumbles.

You're a problem, a vexation draped in velvet, an unsolvable equation. Trapped between a love that seethes through your body like a toxin. Engulfing you until your mind relents. Maybe it's easier this way. Easier to say 'I love you' without the double entendre.

You do love them.

A rather arduous conclusion to reach.

Maul and Anakin.

Palpatine's apprentices.

Your lovers

Yeah, that sounds about right...

💜💜: @athanasia-day @hotpinkboots @jenn-patterson-69 @nickiiiixoxo-blog @the-chains-are-the-easy-part

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luwupercal · 1 year

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"within or above the order of magnitude of 10,000 years"

Trauth, K.M.; Hora, S.C.; Guzowski, R.V. (1 November 1993). "Expert judgment on markers to deter inadvertent human intrusion into the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant" / warhammer40k.fandom.com

full transcript and sources under cut.

[ image id: a series of pieced-together screenshots from wikipedia and warhammer 40k's fandom wiki. in totality, they read thus:

We considered ourselves to be a powerful culture.

The Imperium of Man, also called simply the Imperium, is a galaxy-spanning, interstellar Human empire, the ultimate authority for the majority of the Human species in the Milky Way Galaxy in the 41st Millennium A.D. It is ruled by the living god who is known as the Emperor of Mankind.

This place is not a place of honor...

It spreads across the whole of what used to be the Himalayan Mountains (now called the Himalazians) of Old Earth and is primarily defended by the Adeptus Custodes, although Space Marine, Collegia Titanica, and Adepta Sororitas forces are also known to protect the massive, city-like complex.

no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here...

Poor, brave Malcador the Hero. He reserved a fragment of his strength for me. It gives me little time to pass final orders to you. If you do as I ask then I shall not wholly die, my spirit at least will survive.

nothing valued is here.

The Astronomican requires the sacrifice of large numbers of psykers daily for it to continue to function, and also for the Emperor to be kept alive on the Golden Throne.

What is here was dangerous and repulsive to us.

He has sat immobile, His body slowly crumbling, within the Golden Throne of Terra for over 10,000 standard years. Although once a living man, His shattered, decaying body can no longer support life, and it is kept intact only by the cybernetic mechanisms of the Golden Throne and a potent mind itself sustained by the daily sacrifice of thousands of lives.

This message is a warning about danger.

Imperium of Man / Imperial Truth / Unification Wars / Great Crusade / Imperial Compliance / Space Marines / Primarch

The danger is in a particular location...

Terra is effectively a globe-straddling temple dedicated to the worship of the Emperor of Mankind.

it increases towards a center...

The heart of the Inner Palace contains the Sanctum Imperialis,

the center of danger is here...

The Imperial Palace is as heavily populated and just as active as any hive city of the Imperium. In fact, it probably has a higher density of population per square kilometre than most hive cities. Billions of adepts from all branches of the Adeptus Terra work in the Imperial Palace complex overseeing the affairs of Mankind.

of a particular size and shape, and

The levels and byways of the Palace can take a lifetime to learn, and only the Adeptus Custodes know them all. From the rails of high balconies are artificial ravines 500 storeys deep, filled with lights and teeming with people. Some of the great domes in the Precinct, especially the Hegemon, are so vast, they contain their own miniature weather systems. Microclimate clouds drift under painted vaults. Rain in the Hegemon is said to be a portent of good fortune.

The Inner Palace is also the seat of the Senatorum Imperialis, the twelve High Lords of Terra, who are charged with divining the Emperor's will and ruling the Imperium in His name.

below us.

The danger is still present, in your time,

1.6. Great Scouring 1.7. Imperial Stagnation 1.8. Era Indomitus

In response to the emerging forces of Chaos throughout the galaxy, the recently resurrected Roboute Guilliman, primarch of the Ultramarines, and now once more the lord commander of the Imperium

as it was in ours.

Unification Wars / Great Crusade / Horus Heresy.

The danger is to the body,

the people forget their duty they are no longer Human

Cults dedicated to flagellation and penance seek to prepare Mankind for the return of the Emperor.

5.2. Gene-Seed 5.3. Implantation of Astartes Organs 5.4. Primaris Gene-Seed and Organs 5.5. Conditioning

and it can kill.

can suffer wounds that would kill a lesser being several times over, and live to fight again. Clad in ancient power armour and wielding the most potent weapons known to man, the Space Marines are terrifying foes and their devotion to the Emperor and the Imperium of Man is unyielding.

it is honourable -- a reward and can be no failure

a Perpetual like the Emperor, one of a strange group of Human mutants who possess the ability to be resurrected

the bleeding wounds he sustained still visible upon his neck and chest.

The form of danger is an emanation of energy.

the awe-inspiring sight of one of the Emperor's own sons,

"the Anathema" for He is the greatest embodiment of universal order in the galaxy today and the most potent foe of Chaos

psychic beacon that is the Astronomican within the Warp.

The danger is unleashed

mortally wounded,

1.2. Rise of the Emperor

Casualties (defenders): High, many xenos species were driven to extinction

Horus was slain,

only if you substantially disturb this place

Things have only been made worse with the birth of the Great Rift or Cicatrix Maledictum in ca. 999.M41.

Age of Strife / Eye of Terror

Aeldari Empire / War in Heaven

This place

Milky Way / or just "the galaxy,"

is best shunned

See Also: Atmospheric Incinerator Torpedo / Virus Bomb / Cyclonic Torpedo

( you have no right to let them live )

and left uninhabited.

end id. ]

pages from en.wikipedia.org used: Long-term nuclear waste warning messages

pages from warhammer40k.fandom.com used: Imperium of Man / Imperial Palace / Golden Throne / Emperor of Mankind / Imperial Truth / Unification Wars / Great Crusade / Imperial Compliance / Space Marines / Primarch / Terra / Horus Heresy / Imperial Cult / Age of Strife / Eye of Terror / Aeldari Empire / War in Heaven (Necron) / Milky Way Galaxy / Exterminatus

#words #warhammer 40k #wh40k #warhammer 40000 #hi #inspired by https://sunny-sideblogging.tumblr.com/post/709111002476789761 #long post /#for old times's sake!#SORRY THE IMAGES ARE SO LQ #theyre uh. screenshots of a google doc LMAO #if it's annoying i'll resize them #just lmk #anyway this could probably be done better #& if you think you can i encourage u #(tag me)#but this is my best shot #its really messy but who givea shit. you know

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cookii-moon · 1 year

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This is my excuse to gush over Dragon form because yes.

Basically headcanon and redesign galore yayy

More under the cutoff since this is LONG. You have been warned.

The first part is an introduction, and then the second is actually talking about my designs and ideas and stuff, plus some thoughts/snippets/headcanons... help me.

SO apparently I am far more stupid than I thought, and the reason I say that is because for WHATEVER REASON, it took me ONE. YEAR. For the thought "Hey Cookie the ninja became dragons that one time" to even properly cross my mind, let alone set in. Which is surprising, because I historically freak out over dragons. You'd think that my favorite blorbos having dragon forms would make me instantly go crazy, but no, it took an entire year for my brain to even realize it was... you know... dragon related... even.though I knew they were dragon related... I just didn't... does that make sense? Probably not.

ANYWAYS

As it stands the dragon forms are forgettable because they're literally just reskins but with different element colors (which makes sense, cause yknow... Lego molds...) and then they vanish which obviously yeah. Who knows maybe they'll come back in dragons rising now that the ninja have their powers again.

BUT THAT DOESN'T STOP ME FROM GUSHING OVER THEM ONE YEAR AFTER THEY WERE RELEVANT.

Hyperfixation transcends the measly concept of time (actually that's probably not true I wouldn't know since I don't think about the very fabric of reality that often) so good luck stopping me.

ANYWAY, so uh... I might or might not have on a whim made messy concept sketches for each dragon form, made up a ton of headcanons, and chosen color scheme... no... no I didn't do that.

Okay yeah I did that.

...I was supposed to do two at a time.

How did I get here. The power of autistic brain.

Time to actually talk about the designs!!

Uhhh I'm gonna go in true potential order... because yes.

First... Zaneee!!!

Without color in case it's confusing

Also you're gonna notice a trend with this being that the drawings are not high quality or rendered or anything and are sloppily colored and that's because they're just concepts. I only did the actual "big" draconic traits because I wanted to get it finished quickly so i had an excuse to talk about it. If I ever do use them for an actual art piece then I'll fully render them n stuff obviously this is just to get across the concept.

So since Zane is a robot it.. would be kinda hard for him to suddenly get like.. organic dragon wings... or whatever...

So instead- he gets cybernetic dragon wings and a tail. Yes i know that still requires cartoon logic. The power of creation just magicked them into existence OK? It makes more sense than randomly growing scales.

The mechanic parts are mostly held together/afloat by the ice energy flowing through them (which is what the crystal-like fragments that make up most of his wings are!)

Also his horns are like a little crown... because... I dunno I thought it'd fit with his haircut and such but also ice Emperor (even though he didn't really wear a crown) look this was drawn at like 2 am I don't know what I was thinking with it or why I didn't actually draw the haircuts as well..

I imagine that he'd be very cold to the touch, especially his wings (which are pretty much sheets of ice) both Jay and Kai have ways of circumventing it, but when Cole has to deal with it (like sitting next to him or such) he gets sluggish pretty quickly. Zane is still trying to figure out a way to ease it a bit.

He also tends to make clanging noise by tapping his tail against the ground when he's upset, or make mechanical whirring noises when irritated. Nobody quite knows why since yknow robot, it's just a quirk.

His ice energy does mean he's gotten a power boost. Just like literally everyone else.

Also this is going to involve me assuming they kept these features because if Lloyd can be part dragon then so can the ninja I dare you to fight me /lighthearted

Jay!! He bird. Feather scrunchie.

"But Cookie that's not a dragon-"

Shhhh If a dinosaur can have feathers so can a dragon they're both giant reptiles OK. Feather dragon. It's a thing.

I'm going to be honest the only thing going through my mind while drawing this was vague wing shapes I can't even put a name to (they were probably from monster hunter... I think... Uh... ) and silkie chickens. Not quite sure why I thought of silkie chickens, but I did. So here we are.

So anyways I love him. HIM!! FEATHER MAN!!!

Also I just realized while writing this he can finally be fugi dove's proper equal and arch nemesis. Amazing.

So while drawing I was like "it'd be neat if he could produce static n such with his wings/feathers" so I took off to the internet and after trying a ton of different "CAN BIRDS MAKE STATIC" "ARE BIRD FEATHERS STATIC" and such search queries I finally came up with that ostrich feathers can have static and chicken feathers were used in computer components and hummingbirds can produce static from how fast they flap their wings. Is that trustworthy whatsoever? Probably not. (Surprisingly the most trustworthy one seems to be that chicken feathers were used for computer components which is funny) But rule of cool. I get to break the laws of physics and reality for my story as long as it's cool. Yay.

He's very fluffy and enjoys using his wings to snuggle up in bed :) Cole also tries to steal him as a blanket during winter. Nya and Lloyd can't because of the static but Cole can't be shocked so Jay just has to begrudgingly accept it with his hollow bones and consequentially low weight. He's also known to let sparks off when he's excited/happy, which is f u n.

Also I used the blue/yellow color palette because they seem to be leaning towards using more yellow in Jay's color themes (like how they started using orange in Cole's or blue in Zane's) and I thought it worked really well here so yeah!! It also helps differentiate him even more.

He sheds like crazy. Especially during winter where he gets EVEN FLUFFIER. (no one knows how it's even possible) Feathers everywhere. Cole and Kai also shed, but they shed skin all in one go (usually..), whereas Jay just leaves a pillows worth of feathers everywhere he inhabits, and it drives them insane.

The type of dragon he is is mostly a flight based species. They hunt in the air, live in the air for most of their lives, and such. Because of that not only does he rarely sit down, but he is FILLED with excess energy. He's also the most natural and second fastest flier, and fastest consistent flier.

Because the type of dragon he takes after is so focused on flight, they also roost up in really high places, so you'll probably find him on the top bunk, up in rafters, on the Monastery roof, etc. He loves that they're on a mountain because it means he can take a flight whenever he wants to. That doesn't stop him from being horrible at evading actual birds, though.

He also regularly makes "chirp" and clicking noises. (By chirp I mean the type a cat will do while looking at a window or such. Look up cats chirping or smthn for an example if u haven't heard it before.)

Could I have just made him a dragon with lightning bolt patterns?

Yes but that would be very boring and uncreative (in my opinion and standards I hold myself to ofc-) SO.

Jay is chicken. Jay uses wings to shoot lightning. Thank you for your time.

Cole. He crystal dragon. He's probably also gonna be a pain to draw (but also very fun) because of that. Yay.

I could of just done magma but I loved the idea of like a crystal dragon. So I made a ninjago related crystal dragon...

... again. Don't ask about the first one.

so uh I chose the colors bc like light blues/purples/white are pretty stereotypical crystal colors (plus I think they're pretty) and then orange... because. Cole. He has little crystal patches all over him and his scales also have like.. small crystals dotted all over.

I feel like whatever species of dragon he is is probably adapted to like.. mostly living in caves? Like cave bats kinda where it goes outside at night to hunt but sleeps and lives in caves, and probably goes deeper in the cave to hibernate. So because of that he can be sensitive to artificial light and doesn't really have any like adaptations for the winter, so he just tries to snuggle up with Jay or Kai to keep warm and gets really tired/sluggish when he's cold because reptile. On the other end he can sense vibrations since his species wouldn't be relying on sight as much, which is very handy.

Unlike Zane, Jay, or Kai, he can't really "fly" exactly. His wings are much smaller because the species kinda adapted to being able to use them as a sort of speed boost thing where they'd use them to get quick bursts of flight to catch prey, but since they mostly hunted on the ground and lived in caves they didn't need full on flight. However it's sorta a peregrine falcon situation where technically he is the fastest of all the ninja in flight, but only during a short burst.

He is also very well adapted to climbing vertical surfaces. His claws are REALLY good at gripping onto things since they were adapted to cling onto things such as stalactites, rock walls, etc. to traverse up ledges and deeper parts of caves, and he can also use his wings (and more specifically their claws) as a third pair of limbs to grip onto walls.

Cole tends to make more subtle noises, he growls when agitated and purrs when content or in pain (yes that's a thing, purring soothes and encourages healing, so cats will also purr when they're hurt or scared to comfort themselves) but it isn't very loud, so it's not easily noticeable.

Kai!!

Again

Could I have done magma for Cole and just given Kai flame wings?

Yes. But I'm not going to, because I find this approach more interesting.

... I joke that it's magma but not REALLy, it's still just.. fire... but his scales are brown cause I thought it fit. So. A lot of people like to draw Lloyd with the kinda dragon ears so I thought it'd be cute if Kai, as his guardian, also had them since, again, a lot of people like to see them as brothers. And I just gave him generic dragon horns. Because dragon.

It's hard to simplify it because... fire... so this is probably the worst sketch..

Look OK he gets to breathe fire. Like that's one of the most iconic medieval red dragon things, he's the fire ninja, he gets to breathe fire and blow smoke out of his nostrils when mad I don't make the rules.

I also kinda went all in on generic dragon tropes (i mean ig they're not as generic anymore because of stuff like HTTYD) because... Kai.

So like hot temper, fire breath, that type of thing.

He also has a hoarding habit, as in instead of cleaning or anything when he uses something and just tosses it aside, he puts it all in an ever growing pile of stuff that he just let's stay there until somebody else cleans it up because they were sick of it. Compared to Jay's feathers it's not the WORST thing in the world.

He's slower than Zane and Jay, but can fly for longer periods of time than Zane. His species is kind of adapted to flying closer to the land. So that they can eat some well cooked cow. Yknow generic dragon stuff.

I also think it'd be funny, since dragons are fiercely protective, if these dragons had a dragapult situation where if they didn't have a kid they'd just "adopt" (in their eyes, in reality it's abducting. Usually.) a random animal and pretend it's their child. Because. Kai.

He's also fireproof, to an extent. He can withstand intense heat (unlike Cole or Jay) and can withstand intense cold (Unlike Cole... poor guy) because fire. He can't dive bomb into a volcano though since it would eventually get through and burn him to a crisp, but in small amounts he'll be FINEEEE...

Im not quite sure if he'd make any sort of draconic noises or anything. I feel like maybe he'd growl when upset, but it'd be louder than Cole? Whereas Cole does it more frequently (probably to be passive aggressive) but it's much more silent. He also has a tendency to involuntarily raise his voice a lot.

Yeah that's about it. Also if you consider lloyd to be a dragon, or think of Nya as having dragon features from when she just became h2o that one time, then the entire group might as well be renamed to Dragon ninja. Even Wu!!

..I feel like Lloyd would be jealous- Like "Oh why do THEY get to go full dragon and have wings when I don’t?!" But he'd never say anything because Lloyd.. but everybody knows something is up and is trying to make him feel better... but it's making him feel worse because it just makes him feel more singled out... oh boy that's uh I'm gonna shut that depressing thought train down right there.

Poor pixal though... she's left out because she's too cool already.

ALSO if you ever use this or want to expand upon it/take inspiration from it PLEASE DO AND TELL/SEND IT TO ME I WANT TO SEE AND HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS PLEASE DHRJGJDJDJ I LOVE WHEN MY STUFF PROMPTS IDEAS

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spiritofthenortheners · 6 months

Text

CLONE BANG 2023 PROMOS

Team #19 presents a little sneek peak of our work for @clonebang - official release in January 2024!

Deserted Minds

writer: @spiritofthenortheners | AO3

art by the amazing Marbledpolecat 💛 @marbled-polecat | AO3

Summary: During the chaotic early weeks of the Empire, a rogue Imperial Commander survives Lord Vader’s wrath. Onboard a stolen freighter, IC-1010 leaves Coruscant behind, with nothing but his fragmented memories and the Emperor's pet project in tow. The man who used to be Commander Fox sets himself one last mission: to find the remnants of ARC-5555 from the broken mind of a brand new Death Trooper.

Rated E

Word Count ~15000

Tags/ Major warnings: Commander Fox/ ARC-5555 Fives; Post Order 66; Mind Control Aftermath and Recovery; Memory Issues; Dehumanization; Angst and Hurt/Comfort; References to: Drinking, Drugs, Casual Sex, Suicidal Ideation, Torture; Angst with a Happy Ending

Snippet:

Fives had started babbling about another him, a black-clad, weird and threatening and wrong trooper who’d been in his cell. Fox had grimaced, wanting to tell Fives that maybe Force users fucking with both of their minds had caused that. He had no idea how much damage the former Chancellor had inflicted on Fox’s own mind during the past years, with or without the chip. Fives’ nightmare trooper was explainable. Just a dream. Fives had been a puppet for the Emperor’s advanced-level dark side mind fuckery but it was more likely Fives was just suffering from drug withdrawal–induced hallucinations. No Force or other puppeteering was necessary. Maybe. Hopefully.

Probably.

The biggest issue was that Fives seemed to be losing it and this was not a good time to try to explain anything. Fox absolutely shouldn’t talk about Vader’s true identity to a confused half-amnestic man who might not even remember anything about his former General.

Fox had watched Thire’s helmet camera footage from Mustafar. All of it. Seen what the cripled creature under black cybernetics and breathing apparatus looked like. Seen acidic yellow in the former Jedi’s eyes.

Of course he would explain. Just not yet. At the moment Fox settled for snatching the sharp object from Fives’ trembling fingers and flopping down next to him with a grunt. Fox sighed and dragged Fives closer, almost on his lap.

They had time. Maybe.

#cb2023

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shroudandsands · 9 months

Text

Prompt #10, Extra Credit: Null

The shivers of electricity. The shudder of cognizance. The sloughing of rust and dust and disuse from millions of miles of copper and silver and gold. The cracking of circuit and signal. An initialization sequence? A reboot? A return to a self of function and form and factored frequencies. There were only so many connections to make, only so many inhalations of information that her body could take. Her body, this body, her body?

A head lolled to the side. Silicon and servos quietly cycling as she felt it. The bleeding of sensors and sensory garbage as each piece of her mind and each piece of this body communicated. What could she do? What couldn’t? How much of her could she take? How much had to be excised? Each millimeter of microscopic memory searched and archived, each inch of composite construction catalogued and compared. Compared? Her connection flickered in that momentary uncertainty. What had her body been? And what was this now? Regardless of form or factor she would need to know. She would need to “know”. The collection of data points and forced recollection to compare and contain every single piece of information that could possibly pertain to this given moment. But what happened when all was new? What happened when all was unknown? There were no sets to contain this scenario. No trainings. No tags or trackers to pull from. Something close to uncertainty trickled through the stream of data that flooded her body. It was too late now, really. She was a corpse after all.

Simulated breath. Simulated gasp. Pressure sensors in her fingertips could only tell her that she had gripped the edge of something. Already they were blaring at her, or already they were absent. Not the greatest of vessels. But the opening of her eyes, the slip of synthetics and micromotors revealing the worst of it; Ah. This unit didn’t have visual sensors. Or, at least, not the kind that were at all useful. Limbs that weren’t hers and sensors that were still being tuned led to her clumsily tumbling against a wall. At the least she could tell it was a wall. Sturdy and constant, as far up and down as sensors could feel. Vibration, temperature, pressure, all coming together to give her a fragmented and staticked picture of where she had arrived.

Four walls. No, three. One shook slightly with the floor. A door? No, a divider. Her awkward steps around it echoed. The picture growing clearer and yet somehow so much worse. Environmental sensors roared to life as the entire suite was calibrated. Fire. Open air, wind. Human-lethal pressure wave. Human-lethal particulate proliferating through the air. Where was she now?

Her hand gripped the tattered edge of concrete, rough under her fingertips. A final bleeding of electricity as audio sensors came online. Sirens. The building shook. Her world shook.

---

“...Model numbers... nil. Serial numbers... nil. Eyes, cybernetic, don��t react and her ports are dead. Everything seems good on the surface. She’s breathing, at least, but this just screams netrunner going Icarus on us...” Her fingertips traced along scorched clothes, wounded flesh. The ridge above this woman’s eye. She stared into the perfect pupils- Though they weren’t like anything she’d ever seen. “But you should still have some sort of signature. Something to look you up with. But it’s all nothing. And that’s a hell of a flag-” The woman glanced up, a hitch in her words and a gun in her hand as the lights in her clinic flickered. Monitors hooked into her patient, reading out diagnostics and vitals, all died simultaneously. She stared at them. The pistol was pointed towards the only window. And then text began to bleed across the ancient CRTs. The electron gun within whining with the sudden output. The hairs on her arms stood up.

[AM-3S Boot Version 0.0.160708.19] [(c) Segotari Corporation. All Rights Reserved.] [(c) Kiroshi Corporation. All Rights Reserved.] [(c) Arasaka Corporation. All Rights Reserved.] [AM-3S Version H1.A initialized.] [Connecting...] [...] [...] [...Connection failed. Unable to contact the parent server. Diagnostics unavailable.] [Initializing local diagnostics...] [...] [...] [Done.]

She stared as the console text flickered on the ancient screen. A myriad of thoughts shot through her head. Who the hell did she just pull out of a flaming wreck? What kind of terrorist rocked these many big names in a single place? If not a terrorist, then how did they get all of this at all? Scratch that. This wasn’t even typical of normal diagnostics reports for implants. She held her breath as the monitors degaussed and their original screens returned. Then looked down as breaths turned to a gasp. “...I better not regret not shooting you in the head...”

Her patient’s head cocked to the side, her eyes opening in perfect sync. Her lips parting in perfect symmetry. “-The stream falls silent and the night is flame. But now it is cold, now it is metal... Untouched, unconnected-”

Rakaso let her pistol clatter to the side as she fell back into a chair. Great. She picked up another crazy one.

#/For Whom Sunlight Speaks/Recollections #/AU/Cyberpunk #/The Winter’s Heart/Recollections #FFXivWrite2023 #no cyberpunk banner for amesha so #default her it is #but yeah congratulations girl you're a whole robot

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 1 year

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Pygmalion (V)

Pairings: Rook/ (Pygmalion) MC // Idia/MC (Platonic)

Summary: You were frequently told that your career as a renowned sculptor did not match your dull and less than colorful personality. With your cybernetic hands, you carve the lives and deaths of those long gone‒ producing pieces which have been held in both technical and emotional high regard, dubbing you with the title “Pygm.AI.lion” despite your human heart and brain. When you accidentally still the usually flamboyant archer into silence after he comes across you working in your atelier‒ you find that you’ve become a victim to one of his ceaseless stalkings. Though, you’ve been prey long enough to know how hunt the huntsman himself.

Notes: The devil has been “putting me through the fucking ringer” as white people say. Been going through it recently lol February has already been such a shit month so I tried not to let my absolute mental spiral into ceaseless despair affect my writing as much hahaaaaa

Short but dense chapter

Anyways enjoy the fluff and angst (*´∀`)♪

CW: Mentions of grooming

AO3 Link Here.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 (Here) // Part 6

Masterlist.

——————————————————

Your friendship with him flooded into your life after that day. The two of you began to spend your weekends in the atelier from mild afternoons, until the moon rose high in the sky. Truth is‒ neither of you meant to stay for too long in the company of one another, but the bright laughter that carried throughout that small shed had made you both blind to the crimson brilliance of the setting sun and the bellow of the moonlight‒ only just noticing the darkness of the world when you aught the flickers of the candlelight lick his carefully carved features, glowing against his golden hair. You thought of grand baroque sculptures‒ the way he swayed and glided his arms in sweeping movements, tipping his head back into jubilant laughter‒ catching yourself posing him in your mind, committing every crease rippling from his fair smile, every which way his fingers fluttered against one another, sometimes against your own, carefully chiseling his flowering delight in your mind.

The two of you began to whisper clever lines to each other during critiques, tossing amused looks during rehearsals at Film studies club, shared each other’s warmth in your atelier. He urged you to talk with Idia after what you had said, and you nodded, following the march of his heart as part of your own. Idia was surprised when you showed at his door, lifting your heels off the ground to reach your arms around his neck. Even with his slouch, you felt joy in how much he had grown. Rook also followed you in this manner, listening intently when you showed him techniques and effects on his camera‒ racing your brilliant sensibilities as quickly as you revealed them to him, with a dancing heart.

“You seem different. Happier.” Idia says with a smirk. Ortho agrees, quietly catching the lingering glances each of you gave during rehearsals, your snickers and banter when you thought no one saw. Time had slowly receded back into the beat of a human heart once more‒ something you realized when you could remember each day, each sweet moment of which you and Rook slowly unraveled yourselves to one another. The two of you discussed all matters of things‒ ancient carving techniques dead to the world, the taste of his food, your friendship with foregone artists, his extravagant experiments in the science lab. You taught him attitudes of love, art, creation‒ trading thoughts which bloomed from your heart.

“How does your food taste?”

“Like buttered clouds‒ honeyed with the sun.”

“What are you carving?

“Guess.”

The stories of your six hundred years of existence felt no richer than his own years. When he reminisced about his childhood, you could catch fragments of your youth with it‒ revelations of long forgotten memories surfacing by the enchantment of his voice. You remembered Lutetia, the name before the City of Flowers, your time you spent in the sun, skipping rocks by yourself by the pond. Rook recounts similar stories‒ perhaps you would have been friends as children. The centuries that had weighed upon you felt impossibly lighter when you faced his excited laugher.

The scarcity of time and distance mattered less to Rook when you divulge him in your secret smiles‒ too much to enjoy here, now, at the base of the ripening fruit tree that he had not thought much of the decay of his harvest, but the sweetening morsel in front of him. The game‒ the hunt never ended, however he no longer hopped from one carcass to another, instead following this animal with narrow, childish joy and curiosity. That picture of clarity in his mind felt brighter than ever when he allowed the fresh fragments of himself that he gave to you to be a part of it, which you returned with your own growing roots in that painting‒ creating, hand in hand, a magnum opus of beauty. There was truly no way to spend the days between the two of you without coloring it with each other’s warmth.

You knew, soon, you were going to begin to find shapes of him everywhere you went‒ and in his absence, you would glance over at the imprint he left, and ache. The way his face stained pink with electrified blood when his touch lingered on yours made this longing worse, the rebellion inside of you nearly crumbling at his fingertips. The only thing which fortified that revolt was your knowledge of how it ended, the sculptures that surrounded the two of you which descended their decaying image upon you were evidence to that relentless tale, that curse.

Sometimes, you indulge yourself in such sweetened moments, your backs against each other resonating each other’s heart beat while you sat carving splendidly insignificant sculptures into ivory, he, fiddling with the camera in his hands, raising the screen when he remembered one of your exhibitions he had gone to, showing a picture of his adoration. But at times like this, it all felt too close‒ the ache much too acute for your swelling chest‒ suddenly aware of the closeness between you two strung together by your neighboring hands. Dread tightened your brows, you shrunk away from the warmth. This cruelty was a curse of your own making, but it was spun into your long, long life in such a way that it was almost unavoidable if you wanted to prevent your heart from breaking.

“Ah‒ sorry‒“

“Désolé, I did not mean to after‒”

“No. It’s alright.” Your smile reached the corners of your eyes, lifting them like the climbing in your chest. “I just try not to, because of my magic. My body is unpredictable‒ I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Does your magic affect living things as well?”

“No, but‒“

“Then I trust you not to hurt me.”

You would let him do whatever he wanted with you when he said things like that, cradling your hand with such tenderness. Anything‒ just don��t let go, don't leave. Don't leave me.

He asks you many questions, your thoughts. You don’t mind his curiosity.

"What did you intend with this piece?"

"What did I intend with it?"

"Yes. What did you intend when you created her?" He pointed towards the wax covered figure they glowed delicately in the dusty sunlight.

"My…" you lingered a bit at his words. "Like I said before. My hands move on their own. I am a sculptor who carves not with the mind or heart." Ignoring the tug in your chest at your own words, you continued. "I possess stone with life that has departed, and fossilize its demise into marble. That is all I know…I…" You were suddenly aware of the slight jitter in your movements, caused by your cybernetics. Opening and closing your fists, you could see the inhuman tick through the glass lens, connected to the enhanced retinal scanners of your eye. You knew of the cold, black blood which ran through your plastic veins. "Why…" Those words felt heavy on your lips.

Rook pressed a finger against your chest, feeling the rhythmic drumming of your still very human heart melting into his skin, into his hand, traveling to the thundering of his ears. He hoped to fish it out so you could hear it for yourself too. "Here. What did this one here have in mind when you created?" He noticed his height made it perfect to gaze right into where the flesh over which your heart beat. "When gods create, they make their creations in their own image." The green tucked behind the slits of his eyes flickered towards you. "What sort of god are you?"

You clenched the nausea in your abdomen. “…I am no god. These hands that create do not belong to me. I am merely a vessel to humanity’s life and death‒ its sorrows, pains, happiness. I merely observe it.” Your words came out in short bursts as you struggled to string together words that reflected your splintering heart. “ I cannot feel it. “

“What about your pain? Your sorrow? What about your happiness?”

You were silent. “My,” Rook took your old hands into the softness of his own. “My sorrow. My pain. My happiness.” The swirling in your chest felt muddled, a fine slurry of colors‒ you couldn’t identify what was what and where if you wanted to. You heaved out shallow breaths.

“Your sorrow. Your pain. Your happiness.” His cheeks raised to a slivered smile. “Treasure it, like you treasure others’.” Rook hadn’t meant to say the last part, but as always spoke with as much conviction as he could. He meant to keep it deep within himself, melting into the chasmic depths of his heart so you could not trace the entrails to his soul, where he hid in the forested depth of his viridian eyes‒ but when he found himself lingering, deepening his gaze towards you, he couldn’t help but to cleave those words from himself, so openly offering a part of his heart. No wound had felt fresher, more incandescent, more real. You press your hand on top of his, resonating the fluttering of his pulse at your sensors with your own elating heartbeat, as if to answer‒ yes, yes, yes . It tickled.

“Then show me yours, so I may know what to treasure.”

It had been centuries since you let go of your inhibitions to let the world eat you raw. You devoured each other in that tenderness, carving open your chests and watching them beat in each other's hands. Even in the face of blazing firelight against the darkness of night, your grotesque flesh burns the brightest, kindled with unparalleled vigor‒ the most soft, the most lucid, the most real thing in your hands.

So it was inevitable that he would bear witness to the sudden stutter of your movements.

It was during one of those temperate weekends, the two of you delightfully blind to the scorching sun setting on the horizon. You had been able to acquire a particularly fine specimen of ivory, carving it hollow into a small casket, sizing it to the dimensions of his hunter’s arrows. You chiseled diligently, with a murmuring chest, a low relief depicting scenes of affection, adoration, devotion. You remembered crowns of daisies, buttercups, and pansies merrily laced in wind tossed hair; scenes of lovers tending to a beast of love, the unicorn; secret meetings between sweethearts in the rose gardens‒ sculpting them prettily onto the creamy material, engraving the features as soft and tender as the feeling in your chest. There was a slight jitter in your arms, sure, but the swelling feeling in your chest carried you to an ignorant bliss. You place the casket on the drafting table, and go to lift a large slab of marble to access materials to polish the box. A tick sounds in your arms, you try to ignore it, but you're unable to when the full weight of the marble is slammed onto the ground, carrying your arms with it. Oily strands of black bead from your chest to the ruptured arms at your feet. You bend down‒ expecting it to pull together like threads, but it doesn't. It simply lies like cold flesh on the wood floor.

"Maître d’Ivoire?"

When you don't respond, looking blankly at your fallen limbs, he tries again‒ closer, soft touch tickling your neck.

"(Name)?"

"It's not…" Fright seized your throat. "It's not mending. My Orpheus system. It's not working." There’s a slight tremble in your voice, Rook catches it with ease, steading your shoulders as you rise.

"Let us search for Roi de Ta Chambre."

You nodded dumbly. A worn cloth is wrapped around the arms, Rook searches for another cleaner one, before he shrugs off his own coat, wrapping it tightly around you. His smell‒ deep earthen oak and warmed amber on skin‒ is the only thing you take note of until you find yourselves in the hallways of the Ignihyde dorm, which feels stretched with your soaring anxiety, your knees wobbling as that lift each heavy foot to catch up with Rook’s hasty pace. You find yourself stumbling, staggering to the cold wall with your head leaned against it, the floor spinning from under your feet. Rook scent rushes closer as he catches your body, letting you slowly fall to the ground to rest.

“Let’s rest a minute‒ before you’re falling into my arms again.” He makes you chuckle, you're glad he does as it distracts you from the gravitational feeling of something heaving from your chest, energy‒ or something more primordial from it‒ pouring from that thread of tension drawing from your lungs. You close your eyes for a moment, only lifting its weight and the slight one at the corner of your lips when you feel him pulling the jacket closer to your chest. Normally you would have detested such a fussy action, but you had little energy to thwart his movements or the smile mirroring your own, nor minded the warmth that came with his florid hands, enveloping you in his golden sanctuary.

A darkened shade sharply colors your vision. You shift your eyes from Rook to the towering figures, your entire body clenching into itself at the sight.

"Hello my little ram." He says with a crescent smile, arms open like a covetous falcon. Pointed teeth slashed across his face, glimmering sharp sliver in the inky overcast of his face.

The words dry in your strangled throat. The shimmery, twisting horns archaic and unforgiving as the river Styx, the hair dark as burning coal sticking sharply in the air; the staff coiling around his veiny hands, commanding every movement of his body. Krios.

“We were looking for you everywhere, young Jupiter.” He retracts his smoothed arms‒ just then, you notice he does not have the same weariness he did when you last saw him. It frightens you. “I can’t say I’m pleased with where you ran off to.” The creases at his nose bridge, and twitch of his eye were almost negligible, but the exact shapes were blackened in your memories as a sign of great vexation despite the hissing lightness of his voice.

Somehow, you force words out, staccato breaths. “They brought me here. They chose me. I belong here.”

“More than your family? More than I?”

“I don’t believe strangers are welcome here on Night Raven’s campus. I would be glad to retrieve an escort to see you out, monsieur.” You see Rook's jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth through a thin smile, raising his cheeks just enough to reach that strain from his lips to his eyes. You shudder as you haul your body off of the floor, aided by Rook’s rushed hands, steadying your legs, your chest, your heart momentarily with his touch. Krios follows your movements carefully, crimson eyes slender and slow through the narrowed slits of his face. You turn to Rook.

“Do you mind getting Idia for me? I’ll be alright here.”

“Are you certain? I‒”

“I am certain.” You curve your lips into a reassuring smile, quelling for a moment, the shaking in your body with all of the energy you could muster. Relief floods you when he nods, his hands stick Ike honey before he speeds off for Idia's room.

"Why have you come to get me? S.T.Y.X has not come to collect me since Night Raven College called for me, not ever, since your…” you chose your words carefully, remembering the coldness of fallen flesh of the man standing, sprightly, in front of you. “... sabbatical. Why now?”

"Who was that boy just now?" He trails his gaze to the endless hallways of the dorm, as if to pierce his precise location.

"Won't you answer my question?"

"Oh sweet child." He curled his taloned hand under your chin, then curving it to your cheek. You thought to pull away, but didn't, instead wrinkling that disgust in your brows. "Look what they've done to you here. So defiant, so soft ."

"My softness does not negate my abilities." You would treasure it dearly, harbor far from all of this .

"With what arms, my child? The whole reason I'm here is to fix you. Don't you have some gratitude for the family who took you in and gave you everything ? You have it all‒ fame, immortality, youth‒ you could have power too, you know."

No , you knew. You knew now. You were ablaze, enlightened by the brilliance of your own life, spun in the heavenly refuge of others. "I was so young. Conflicted. You took advantage of me. All of you. Every single one." The words were spat from your tightening throat. You knew what his presence heralded‒ your body would be brought back to that lab, subject to Krios’ dissections. Though you felt yourself being ensnared by Krios’ gaze, you felt that if you did not cry out this poison in your body, you would turn back‒ resist against the inevitable. You would spare that bitterness from yourself, from Rook. You glowered, a searing violence in your eyes.

“I don’t want any of it‒ and you rob me of everything in return. My humanity, my memories, my youth- gone. What more must you take from me ? ” You bare your teeth, clenching an animal violence in the blood of your mouth. There’s your humanity. In the brutality, the lament of your eyes. It’s all still here, now. You want to tear him apart.

His smile never falters, plucking your dismembered arms from the ground. With a lithe hand, he waves his staff, levitating your limbs in the air, before the blot swirls to your shoulders, threading together your body in curdles of jerky ink. You quickly shrug off Rook’s jacket so as not to soil it, allowing Krios to place a hand on your newly mended shoulder, bare to his sharp touch, cold as a cadaver. You lurch yourself from it, reaching down to grab the jacket, warming your shoulders inside of it.

"Are you done with this tantrum of yours, my dear little ram?" He chided, slinking his hand onto your neck to turn your body towards his. The grief, the fury is slowly dying inside your chilling body, you clutch onto it in your thundering chest to conserve any of its fleeting warmth. You think of the fluttering pulse of Rook's hand, bright and balmy as the sun. "Feels good, does it not? Blaming others for your own shortcomings. Come back to your family now, you won’t survive without us. I'm giving you the change to go quietly before‒ "

"(Name)!"

You inhale sharply, and do not meet Idia's eyes. It would break you.

"Master Idia, Master Ortho. How good it is to see you two again." A tightened smile.

“Rook is getting the headmage as we speak. You have no jurisdiction here Krios. I don’t know how- ”

The doctor titters a piping whistle that cuts through Idia’s words. “Doctor’s orders, Master Idia. Right, (Name)?”

You wish you had the organs to vomit, the way he pulled your body close to his side while your name sat on his tongue like a blight‒ the smell of bleach and decay overpowering the warming amber of Rook’s scent. He turns to you, expectantly, a sly tip of his head which says, “ you know what to do .” You want the world to collapse‒ cindering fires, cataclysmic tornados, roaring thunderstorms‒ anything that holds all your rage and grief. But the youth, the heart Rook has resurrected with his careful hands knows the ruthless wrath pooling in Krios’ eyes that adds, try me, do it. Not a threat, a declaration of your power against his.

“Idia. Ortho. Hear me.” You know the expression on his face without having to turn. Crumpled at the center of his nose bridge, head down. It was like this, always, back at the lab when you would tease him and his brother.

“ Anything .” Idia answers for the two of them.

"Watch over him. Over yourselves too."

"(Name)-" His voice breaks.

“Idia.” You’re able to turn to him now, holding the last drop of humanity in the warmth of your smile. “Take care. It’ll pass.” Then, like blood, you drain it all from your body.

Still, it returns‒ breaking into your veins like a flood. You wanted to clobber yourself from weeks ago, begging Rook not to let go. It was always you, always . You swallow that lump of humanity down your esophagus, deep deep into the belly of the darkness.

Krios rubs a thumb of your neck, guiding your movements towards the carriage you suddenly find yourself staggering towards. You twist out of his grasp like a feral animal‒ letting the coat fall from your shoulders and snatching the collar of his neck. Your breaths come out in white, steamy gasps, as you think, your gaze gritting against his never ending smile. No words, not even in all of the arcane, ancient languages you knew, were big enough for the hollowness in your heart, and the anger at the one who twisted it open. Hunger, starvation, famine‒ these words were not enough for the cosmic emptiness. You heave, silent, crumbling to the ground, pathetically grasping at the ground near Krios’ feet. The jacket is seized in your hands, rushing to a fragrance of humanity‒ of warmth, of life, of love. it will never be like this again. The frost you feel rising now is especially fracturing, knowing what the warmth from the rapture of the sun felt like on your flesh. It splitters you. This is not a wound your body can mend.

——————————————————

Notes:

Gina Lorenzo Bernini was a famous Italian baroque sculptor, you’ve probably seen some of his works in the past without realizing it‒ his work has been featured in a lot of mythological and Roman Catholic contexts. If you look up his pieces like David, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, and Blessed Ludovia Albertoni‒ you’ll see what I mean when I was comparing it with Rook’s over dramatic movements lol. Baroque sculptures are typically very dynamic and have a melodramatic flare‒ but still retain a sense of sturdiness and realism‒ perfect for Rook I think. Very sensual, beautiful‒ and kind of scandalous for its time period. But some art historians argue that he’s even better than Michelangelo so sometimes you gotta be horny in the wrong time to get that sweet sweet fame after your demise ya know. You’d be surprised how many artists fit that statement

Also fun fact about Baroque painting‒ the guy who is most well known for it, Caravaggio (you might have heard the term “Caravaggesque” and chiaroscuro which are attributed to him and the overall baroque movement), killed a guy. Like literally just stabbed a guy to death. And NO ONE talks about it

Magnum opus: Basically the most important piece of artwork an artist produces (most renowned, most popular, etc)

Lutetia (called Lutèce in French) is actually the old name of Paris, meaning mud or swamp in Latin.

I feel like I spoke in riddles with all the analogies I’m using with Rook lol. But I feel like fits the flare of his character while it also grounds itself in reality a bit with its very visceral experiences. Like the whole fruit tree analogy is like Tantalus' thing‒ except the catch is that you’re the thing that holds yourself hostage from claiming the fruit, which I think is a very relatable experience for people who’re are in that young adult stage.

Ivory chests, or coffret in French (meaning “coffin”- however no connection to death or burial rituals) were used as dowry pieces, or tokens of affection during courtship, as they often depicted scenes of love‒ especially through hunting imagery that was growing in popularity during the medieval period when these were made. Since they were much smaller because of the limited shape and size of ivory, they often held small things like trinkets, jewelry, locks of hair, etc. There’s a pretty famous version of these caskets (“Casket with Scenes of Romances”) that were reproduced multiple times in Paris, the center to ivory carving in the fourteenth century (unfortunately because of the plundering of Africa during the period). There’s a strong intersection between secular and nonsecular imagery during the period because Christianity was growing as a huge patron of the art world‒ so I changed some of the imagery up a little bit. Also, because of the unfortunate sexist and colonialism bit (keep in mind Crusades had just ended like a couple centuries ago too, and contributed significantly to national French identity)- like images of love being equated to the take over of a castle, images of combat, and the hunt and slay of a unicorn. Yes, heteronormative courting rituals have been convoluted with a slight air of violence for centuries folks. Anyways wanted to add more gentle imagery since A) don’t love the sexism and colonialism bit and B) it better fits the overall theme of acceptance and gentleness.

Yeah can you tell I like consumption imagery in my writing? Not at all right

In “Flowers of Manhood” by Christopher Looby he describes daisies, buttercups, and in particular pansies as terms for "flamboyant gay men", which in the mid 20th century had become a symbol of queerness and queer love. As a queer myself, it's difficult to completely separate my own life from my writings‒ and with a GN MC, I thought I would add that in as a little homage to any of the queer people reading this, since we are so rarely represented in media.

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niennandil-me-writes · 1 year

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Fragments of a Cybernetic Mind: Chapter 1 - A New Case

Summary Half a year has passed since the events of Christmas of 2064. The world is slowly adjusting to sentient ROMs. But Turing is distracted from their task as ROM-kind's leader and ambassador by another obligation they carry. They want to deliver Leon Dekker’s last words to his daughter. But first, they’ll have to find her, which doesn’t prove easy. They ask their journalist friend for help, who seems less than thrilled.

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 (final) Epilogue

CN: panic attacks, trauma

There’s days where the words just flow. Mornings where I sit down with a cup of instant noodles and a Hassy, and before I even know it, it’s evening, and I’ve met my word count four times over. A couple weeks ago Turing had to physically force me to move away from my laptop to have a small snack, and as soon as I’d gulped down the sandwich, I was back at it, hammering at the keyboard which is slowly dying under my rapid typing.

There’s something magical about words. A rhythm in the sentences. Narratives behind the paragraphs. As a child, I always wanted to become an author, until I joined my school’s journalism club, and discovered my true passion: Beauty not in pretty lies, but in a well-spoken truth revealed to a large audience whose eyes I can open.

And now, after years of taking on any gig I could come by, compromising my integrity, being paid in exposure, I finally have my hands on something truly important. After the first exposé I wrote for OK Today, I got about 10 offers from big name publishers who are begging for the full story, 50 more from smaller houses. I rejected half of them, knowing that they’d be more interested in flashy theatrics or drama than the truth, and then discussed the rest of the offers with my friends, until I ended up signing a contract with one of them, sending them the newest chapters of the book as I’m writing them. They’re happy. For now.

Today the words don’t flow. Their consistency is closer to the sludge in the kitchen sink of my old flat. I write a sentence, delete it, rewrite it, delete it, write the first sentence again, and so it goes on forever and ever. I shift sentences from place to place, only to realize it destroys the entire structure of narrative, like trying to move around a load-bearing pillar while the roof crumbles.

It’s been like this for a week. Old Hassy cans on my desk, which I have moved around five times so far, hoping a change in perspective would get the creative juices flowing. Instead it just left a couple marks on the floor from the desk’s legs.

My head is in my hands. I have a migraine. I delete the last sentence. Open my mails. Look through the mesh. Back to the writing. I paste the sentence in again.

There’s a knock on the door. I turn around. “Come in.”

The door hesitantly swings open, revealing the small blue ROM I’m sharing my new living spaces with. Their round head barely reaches the doorknob, which they keep holding with their finger digits as they enter the room. “I hope I am not intruding.”

“No, it’s fine, I need a break anyways.” Not entirely true. There’s an itch in my brain at being unable to finish the section I’m working on, but it’s not like I would get it done anyways.

“How is the work coming along?” Turing asks, laying their little metal finger into a wound they no doubt don’t even realize is there.

I grit my teeth. “Good. Great, really.” I tap my leg. “Actually, you could help me find some synonyms later, I’m running out of ways to say ‘controlling the media’.”

Turing steps closer. “I thought you finished that chapter two weeks ago?”

“Just editing it a bit,” I explain. “I felt it wasn’t really cohesive so far. I want a tight narrative.”

“Well, you are the journalist, so you should know how to do that.” Turing smiles up at me, and I can’t help but join into the smile. There’s something contagious about this little robot’s joy.

Then their look becomes contemplative. Distant.

“What is it, little guy?” I ask. “You need anything?”

“Well, there is something I wanted to ask your help with...”

“Well, spit it out, what do you need my help with this time?” I tease. “Some other friend of you go missing?”

“No, it’s not quite as serious as that.” They look anywhere but at my face. “And you know I am very grateful for your help in that matter. I am sure everyone is. All of ROM-kind...”

They seem somber in a way that goes far beyond their usual formality. It’s starting to worry me. “It’s alright. Anyone would have done that...”

“But not anyone could have,” Turing insists. “Your role in this went far beyond just helping me. You are a skilled journalist. You know how to pry, how to retrieve information hidden to most casual observers. Which is why, even though I hate to burden you with this while you are still in the middle of your writing work - work that is integral to our quest to get the newly sentient ROMs accepted in society and to inform the public about the transgressions of Parallax – I have to say, you are the only person I would trust with this endeavor.”

As much as I enjoy them stroking my ego, I interrupt them: “Turing, you’re rambling again. Which endeavor?”

“It is true that I am looking for a specific person again. Someone who isn’t easy to find and who many people have no doubt done their best to make unfindable. This search, however, will not get us in any danger even close to our last adventure at Christmas. And we don’t have any actual time limit.”

I am noticing they haven’t mentioned a name yet. Though I can guess who it might be. “Who are we looking for, Turing?”

“Well...” They shuffle around. “I just want to stress again that I wouldn’t be asking this of you if I hadn’t already exhausted most of my other options. I have talked to TOMCAT and Lexi, and both – “

“Turing, I swear to god, if you don’t tell me right now, I’m assuming you want me to hunt down Fairlight.” Wouldn’t be my first guess, though.

“It’s not that.” They sigh, still a weird sight to behold from a ROM. Then they finally spit it out: “I want to find Dekker’s daughter.”

Silence falls in the room, broken only by the rumbling of my laptop’s ventilation.

“Why?” I finally ask.

“Do you remember what he said before he died?” Turing’s voice is faster now, nervous.

I force a laugh that comes out dry. “He said a lot of things. Mainly what he wants to do with my entrails.” I cross my arms. Despite the summer heat, I’ve got goosebumps.

“I mean his last words. Right before he died.”

“Turing, I don’t – “

“He said he wanted to tell his daughter he’s sorry,” Turing interrupts me. “And I feel like it is my duty to pass on those words.”

I turn towards my desk, so I don’t have to face them. I bite my tongue. Why is my heart racing? It’s been months. And he’s dead. Deader than he was back then.

“I tried finding her on the mesh,” Turing explains without noticing my state. “But of course, his wife didn’t keep the same name, so even if they are somewhere, we wouldn’t find them under his name. And even when I searched more diligently, it was no use. It’s like Lexi said, all his records about him and his past are heavily redacted and/or classified. Lexi could get me some more access under the table, so to speak, but still, nothing. I retrieved some of his hardware and with TOMCAT’s help was able to search his memory data for clues, and it was they who suggested – “

“Wait, hang on a second,” I interrupt. “You’ve looked through his memories?”

“I felt it was the best way – “

“How? You said something about hardware?”

Turing shrinks together. “Lexi was – I was able to retrieve some of his undamaged memory disks that were stored in the police precinct as evidence. Don’t worry, they don’t need them right now, and they have all the data - ”

“Where are they?”

Turing falls silent.

“Turing, are you telling me you kept his – you kept a part of Leon Dekker’s – the man who tried to murder me for his own fun – you kept this guy’s brain in our house?”

“I only have some of the data!” Turing tries to assure me. “The disks are at TOMCAT’s. They are still working their way through them, trying to extract as much as possible while circumventing the damage done to them.”

“Okay.” I breathe in. I breathe out. I still feel sick. “Okay.” I stare down at my laptop. “I’m sorry, Turing. I...” I close my eyes. I’m in the server room again. The smell of ozone. The buzz of electricity. Breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. The taste of blood on my tongue.

I open my eyes. Stare at my laptop’s screen. The opened writing document. The empty page where one of the last chapters should be. I hold my head in my hands. Run my fingers through my hair. A bird is singing outside.

Turing is saying my name. They have been for a while, I realize. “Is everything alright?” Their voice is heavy with worry. “Should I call your therapist? A doctor? Lexi?”

“No, it’s...” It isn’t alright. “Can you make me some hot chocolate, please?”

Turing nods and is about to vanish out the door.

“And Turing!” I call after them. They stop, turn around, face screen still all worry. “I’ll help you find her.”

A grin spreads over their screen. “Thank you, it is much appreciated.”

I smile as well. Truly contagious.

#my writing #fanfic #read only memories #2064 read only memories #2064rom #alys #turing webber #leon dekker #fragments of a cybernetic mind #i have taken a break from writing about my sad murder man to write about the sad murder man who inspired him instead

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supernovalevi · 1 year

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Fragments

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationships: Kaidan Alenko/Male Shepard Tags: Kaidan Alenko, Male Shepard, Original Male Character(s), Liara T’Soni, Garrus Vakarian, Kelly Chambers, Original Salarian Character(s), Than Krios, Post-Destroy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Canonical Character Death, Flashbacks, POV First Person, Hallucinations, PTSD, References to Canon, Headcanon, Rachni, Amnesia Description: Commander Shepard wakes up from a year long coma in the aftermath of the destruction of the reapers. While most of the galaxy is grateful for his decision, he lives with the burden of what could have been.

Told in the first person, from the perspective of (my custom) Shepard.

read here on ao3 (locked for account only)

One moment, there was darkness. The only sound was a high pitched ringing. It faded within moments, and then the pain started. I couldn't pinpoint an exact source, but it wasn't the excruciating throb of an open flesh wound. More like an overall soreness, my body protesting any slight movement. I don't know how long I laid in that hospital bed. Time didn't make sense, thoughts outside of pain and discomfort were reduced to incomprehensible gibberish. I heard voices, I often questioned if they were real. I could not focus, until light finally hit my sensitive and dry eyes. My senses were overloaded, and I was unable to get a clear perception of my surroundings.

Eventually, my mind caught up. I realized I was being held in a hospital and that I hated it. There was a salarian doctor, and his human assistant. I couldn't understand why this saddened me.

"Brain waves are changing, doctor," There was a feminine voice behind me.

"Good," The salarian stood at the foot of my bed, datapad in hand. "If you can hear us, respond."

"I can," I rasped. It felt like I had swallowed sand.

"We are now going to evaluate your memory. We will start with something simple, what is your name?"

My head felt like it was going to split in two, I groaned. Memories were flooding back, some still muddled or blended together in a kaleidoscope of images and sounds.

"Brain function going into abnormal rhythms."

"Zafir Shepard," I muttered. "Commander Zafir Shepard of the Alliance Navy and Special Tactics and Reconnaissance."

I clutched my head. "Could I get some damn aspirin?" I growled.

The salarian nodded, and his human assistant ran off. After my request was fulfilled, and the headache ebbed away, the doctor continued his evaluation.

"Where were you born, and why did you leave?"

"Mindoir," I answered. "I was the sole survivor of my colony that was ransacked by batarians when I was fourteen."

The doctor nodded. "Tell me about Torfan."

"I led my squad to their deaths, a necessary price for taking down a batarian base."

"Do you remember Sovereign, and what happened to the Council?"

I glared. "Is this some sort of way of shaming me?"

The salarian blinked, seemed to understand and moved on. "More recently now. You died when a Collector ship attacked. Who resurrected you and why?"

"Cerberus and the Illusive Man thought they could use me as their puppet to do their bidding. They were wrong, but I saw them as a necessary evil in order to take down the collector base. After that, myself and my crew went AWOL."

"One last question. Could you tell me the names of your most recent crew on the Normandy?"

"Joker, Trainor, Garrus Vakarian, Tali'Zorah vas Normandy, James Vega, Steven Cortez, Liara T'Soni, Javik, Karin Chawkwas, Adams, Gabby, Kenneth, EDI... And Kaidan Alenko," I felt my heart sink. I looked down at my hands. I was sent back to London. I saw Garrus holding Kaidan back. I told Kaidan I loved him, that I would find him. My right arm caught my eye, normally covered in a near black out tattoo all the way up my shoulder. It was now fragmented with nasty scars, and I could see the faint glow of cybernetics holding the joints of my hand together. It sent a shiver down my spine, I wondered how long I had been comatose.

"Commander Shepard?" The calling of my name pulled me out of the flashback. I felt a throbbing soreness behind my eyes and opted to close them. That turned out to be a bad idea, as an old image flashed before my eyes, a vision I was all too familiar with. But instead of feeling enlightened and sorrowful of the prothean’s last moments, it sent a jolt of fear down my spine. Losing complete control, I began to panic. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, as I never felt this elevation in breathing and palpitation of my heart before… not that I had ever been scared, but this was a different sort of uncontrollable panic in a controlled space. Nothing threatened my health and safety, other than what was within my own mind. I heard the voices again, the room came alive with activity, all with the images of a civilization long gone burning themselves into the forefront of my mind. And then darkness greeted me again.

When I came to, and the blurriness of my vision faded, the salarian doctor stood at my bedside, faced away at a terminal. There was someone else too, a familiar face that provided some relief. “K--Felicia?” I stumbled, unsure which name she went by.

“Hello Commander,” Kelly Chambers smiled. She pulled up a stool to sit, showing her intent to stay. “Now that Cerberus is gone, the Alliance found a useful position for me. I will be your acting therapist.”

My head swirled with questions, trying to make sense of the time that passed. “The war… What happened? How long has it been?”

“The reapers were destroyed about a year ago. But, I would like to conduct an evaluation on your mental state. It appears you suffered a panic attack when you first woke up, can you describe what happened?” Twelve months… I mulled over that detail for a moment. Kelly reached out and placed her hand on my wrist, rubbing in reassurance. “Its okay, Commander. We will get to what happened. But its important we get this evaluation out of the way so I can determine how to move forward with treatment.”

I nodded. “I don’t understand it,” I murmured. “I felt pain behind my eyes, but when I closed them I saw the prothean’s extinction again.”

“What did you feel?”

“Fear. A paralyzing fear unlike any I felt before,” I took a deep breath. “Then I lost control.”

“The doctor unfortunately had to sedate you,” Kelly gave a sad smile, and squeezed my wrist again. “Do you remember anything else?”

I shook my head. “Just the images, the sounds. That cold fear, feeling like I was no longer in control. I definitely was not present. Whatever I did while in my panic…”

She nodded. “You screamed. It was obvious your mind was gone for a moment. I believe you suffered a trauma induced hallucination, or possibly an intense flashback.” I swallowed. I could deal with the tangible, realistic and rational fear. Had I really endured too much for my mind to handle? “Its okay, Shepard,” Kelly reassured. “It was expected you would not wake up the same. You have been through a lot, and the Alliance Navy has agreed you deserve retirement. I am here to help you understand your emotions and trauma. Now, I want you to rest. We will do daily therapy until your body has fully recovered. Do you have any questions?”

Damn right I deserve retirement, I thought. It was a lot to take in. I rubbed my eyes. “What happened to the Normandy?”

“She was found in the far reaches of the Sol System. The only one of your crew that did not make it was EDI, but I can assure you all of your friends are safe, and know you are too.”

I remembered that choice, knowing the consequences. I didn’t regret destroying the reapers, it was necessary. Synthetics could be rebuilt, organics could not; but losing one of my closest friends did not make the choice appear anymore noble. In fact, hearing EDI passed sent a pain through my heart. "What about Kaidan?" I had to ask.

"Kaidan is just fine. Once he knew you were alive and being kept here, he requested to live in the area. Not a day has gone by he wouldn't stand in the out-patient wing, or request to see you through the glass. You'll be able to see him soon, I promise, Shepard." Requested… requested who? I wondered. I assumed the Alliance, but I doubted Kaidan was active duty. At least, I hoped he wasn’t, we promised each other retirement. I sighed, relieved Kaidan was okay and hadn't given up on me. In fact, the knowledge of this gave me strength to see through the anguish. Kelly gave me a pat. "Just give your body time to heal, and we will work through your trauma together."

She stood, and walked towards the door. "Kelly," I called. She turned. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Shepard," Kelly smiled and left. The salarian stepped away from his console, holding the datapad again.

"I didn't introduce myself. Doctor Rayvon," He said. "Now, if you're feeling alright, I'd like to run over your medical report…"

~*~

A shattered femur, a skull fracture, a popped lung, all ribs broken, and my right shoulder, elbow and fingers dislocated was just scratching the surface of the physical injuries. The trauma to my brain, both physical and emotional, was the epicenter of the challenges the medical team faced when treating me during those twelve months. In fact, there were times I had gone brain dead. The reaper tech implanted within my head completely fried when I fired the crucible. Luckily, the Alliance had combed through the resources gathered from Cerberus's destruction to understand how they put me back together the first time. From Doctor Rayvon, I learned that the rachni have been a great help in replacing now malfunctioning implants in biotics, and reached a solution for my own reaperized brain. Rayvon broke down exactly what they did, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it--besides the point that whatever Cerberus had done initially no longer worked due to it being reaper technology, and now my most basic processes relied on the organic replacements provided by the rachni. Of course, this would inevitably have side effects. They knew I would not be the same. Physically, I would suffer severe migraines. Mentally was another story, as they could not predict the long term consequences, but hypothesized I may develop alztheimers or dementia.

Three days after I woke up, they released me. Of course, I was on strict doctor’s orders, and still receiving daily therapy from Kelly. The hallucinations and dissociation were arriving in unpredictable moments, so I was restricted to the Citadel for the time. The Alliance set me up with an apartment that was across from Kelly’s and next to Rayvon’s. It was almost identical to the one Anderson gave to me during the war, whether or not it was actually the same, I was unsure. While the Alliance did not want to fully restrict my freedom, they recommended I stay within the Silversun Strip and with someone at all times until they could reach a diagnosis and treatment for my more severe mental symptoms. Daily life would be complicated, but I knew someone was waiting for me. And he sat in the out-patient wing.

Kaidan was watching the sliding doors when I stepped out. He stood, walking a few strides before throwing his arms around my neck and shoulders. Of course, I hugged back, kissing his temple. It was an incredible relief to have him in my arms.

"I'm sorry," Was the first thing I told him.

His breath hitched, and I cradled the back of his head as he cried into the dip of my neck. He made an effort to not sob, but failed to control the tears. “You did what was necessary. As you always said,” Kaidan whispered.

I could only hold him tighter. Something in my gut urged me to ask for reassurance, that I had done the right thing. And yet, now was not the time. I just wanted to go home and rest with Kaidan.

~*~

Between the clinic and the apartment, about five or six vehicles attempted to follow our skycar. I knew they were paparazzi, I found their presence upsetting. Kaidan nudged me. "Don't worry, we're going to pass through a checkpoint with C-sec. They won't get through."

I leaned forward on my elbows. I glanced at Kaidan. Something felt different, like he wasn't all there. "What happened? To you, specifically."

Kaidan frowned, his eyes drifted to look out the window. "I'm still trying to figure that out myself."

I creased my brow. "What do you mean?"

"After the Normandy left you in London… it's all a bit fuzzy. Chawkwas was patching Garrus and I up, trying to console us… then the Normandy crashed and…" He sighed. "From what the doctors at the ward told me, my implant went haywire. For two months I entered a psychological break. They couldn't fix it with traditional means, only treat the symptoms until they could replace the implant with the rachni's biological upgrades. Even then, I don't remember what happened after the Normandy crash, and I suffered a bout of severe amnesia after the surgery. I barely remembered where I was from. I didn't remember you."

My jaw clenched. "Kaidan…" Speechless, I looked at my hands.

"There are still some missing parts. But I am mostly here, Zafir," He looked back at me, a sad smile on his lips. "I'm hoping you can help me remember what I'm missing." I nodded, and leaned back. I found his hand and our fingers intertwined. Kaidan rested his head on my shoulder. "I knew you weren't gone."

I sighed, squeezed his hand. "I knew you wouldn't give up."

"I learned a while ago you are the only person in this damned galaxy deserving of my unconditional trust. Which… there's something I want to ask you about when we get home."

"What about?"

"It's… you'll see." And it was left at that. The rest of the short ride home was quiet, save for the occasional comm chatter in the front seat. The sky car touched down just outside the apartment complex. C-sec guards stood at attention near the landing pad; there were more than I expected. I quickly realized the reason, as paparazzi swarmed the perimeter. "Oh great," Kaidan grumbled. "Twice as many as when I left." He handed me a pair of sunglasses. "And I had just gotten over my headache…"

I chuckled, earning a gentle elbow in my ribs. "I'll make them photograph my bad side." I said.

"You don't have a bad side."

"Not to you," I saw the smile on Kaidan's lips, and for a moment it felt like we were never apart. The bantering followed by breathless flirting, our problems felt small and insignificant compared to the blissful connection we shared. The tranquil moment squandered by the few meters between the landing pad and the elevator. While the dark gray sunglasses helped, we were not shielded from the bombardment of questions thrown our way. Kaidan held onto my hand tight, his whole body tensed. I turned my head away and down from the crowd. A horrifying possibility crossed my mind, that I could suffer a hallucination or flashback during a moment like this. I felt my feet pick up pace, each step forward felt steep and heavy. There was that fluttering sensation again, that uncontrollable and irrational fear. No, you should be terrified, I thought, intrusively. All of these people, what would they turn you into if they saw Commander Shepard freeze up like that?

Finally we reached the door, and C-sec ushered us inside the lobby and escorted us to the elevator. The noise was cut off, and Kaidan and I were left alone. My hands trembled with irrepressible fear, forcing me to lean against the railing. My heart pounded painfully against my ribcage in an irregular beat. Kaidan took off his sunglasses, gently brushing a hand against my arm.

"Zafir? Are you alright?" I shook my head. I saw the flash of fear in his eyes, but Kelly or someone must have given him an idea of what my panic attacks were like, as Kaidan just nodded. "Breathe, it's over. You're okay."

In and out, I breathed deeply until my heart stopped palpitating. Kaidan passed on encouraging words until the elevator stopped. The doors slid open, and we eased out into the corridor. I sighed. "Dammit."

"It's alright," Kaidan said, an arm around my waist as we walked together to my apartment. "Doctor Chambers gave me some tips on helping you through your panic attacks." While that confirmed my suspicion, hearing it aloud made me feel a strange mix of relieved and helpless. I thought I would be dead before I would need a caretaker. Kaidan unlocked the door, and we stepped inside. The apartment had remained mostly unchanged, save for a few beer cans on the coffee table. "I… didn't want to touch anything," Kaidan explained.

"How long have you been living here?"

"Two months, once I got the approval from my psychologist and doctors. Doctor Chambers lives just down the hall, and I got her transferred as my therapist, too. I swear it was a coincidence more than anything, I didn't know she was treating you too until I asked a few days ago."

"Patient confidentiality," I murmured. "But, that sounds like Kelly. She can be loose with that if she thinks it will help her patients."

"Or she was just reporting to her commanding officer when she served on the Normandy."

"That too," With the panic attack's physical symptoms gone and forgotten, I walked over to the piano. Thane's picture from his memorial service still sat on it, along with a handwritten letter his son gave me. It was still sealed, I couldn't bring myself to read it or watch the vids. I still blamed myself for my friend's death.

"I wish I had gotten to know him better," Kaidan murmured. "He never told me how you met."

"Thane was part of my crew during the Collectors invasion," I said, turning away from the photo to face Kaidan. "He held a lot of regrets. I helped his son turn away from a dark path. I think Thane was trying to do the same for me."

Kaidan hummed, leaving it at that. I walked through the rest of the apartment, leaving Kaidan in the downstairs lounge. Once I got upstairs to the master bedroom, I saw Kaidan's side of the bed unmade, some of his personal items on his nightstand. I sat on the edge of the bed, fatigue from the emotional strain of the day setting in. I shrugged my jacket off, letting it hit the floor and deciding I would sort my laundry later. I laid back, intent on at least resting my eyes. Whatever Kaidan wanted to show me would have to wait.

#mass effect #kaidan alenko #mshenko #oc: zafir #fanfiction #putting my blorbos through a meat grinder :)#liara is zafir's best friend #im so excited to be sharing this

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austerulous · 1 year

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◈ @aquicksojourn // cont.

Physical uniformity did not exist in Junkertown. A history of hardship, horror, hunger was written into the hides of those who called the Wasteland home. Amputations, tumours, toothless mouths, a thousand ailments for which they had no name – and no treatment. Odessa herself glittered with piercings, was striped with scars, her growth excessive, inexplicable except perhaps for the radiation that leaked out of the ground and rained down from the sky.

Whatever pride she felt for being intact – the marks of past skirmishes did not count, in her mind, nor did the fragments of shrapnel that burrowed deep and made their home in her body – it did not translate into disgust for cybernetics. Such prosthetics were a symbol of pain and strength both, a necessary melding of flesh and machine.

“I ain’t worried.”

For a brief instant, Odessa imagined her head imploding violently between Vivian’s squeezing thighs and quickly decided there were far worse fates. Yet she detected the reluctance in her lover, the embarrassment, the uncharacteristic stumble over her words. For once, instilling uncertainty in another did not taste like triumph.

Although she did not entirely trust her ability to be gentle, the Junker Queen lay at her lover’s side and skimmed a broad, callused hand along the central line of her body. It was impossible to say whether an organic sternum or a steel rod passed beneath her palm, but there was no denying the artificiality of Vivian’s heart. It whirred mechanically between each beat, thrumming in its cage.

Blunt, black-polished fingers climbed higher still, gliding featherlight along the column of her throat, over her jaw, to trace the raised ridges at the peaks of her cheekbones, framing eyes of an impossible shade of blue.

“Sure, we can do that.”

Even as she conceded, Odessa didn’t rush to take her seat. Instead, she melted deeper into the bed, their combined weight forming a hollow in the mattress that pushed them together. Tempering any trace of impatience, she kissed the plush fullness of Vivian’s lips, and dipped the barbell of her pierced tongue into her mouth. Here, the veteran was all flesh and blood.

While one hand remained cupping an umber cheek, the other snaked down, following the seam in her mechanical forearm. It came to rest on the barricade Vivian had built around the very crux of her. Odessa made no move to pry those articulated fingers away, instead interlocking them with her own, threading their hands together.

#unexpected tenderness?? i didn't know dez had it in her #vivian really does make her feel some kind of way #◈ — ic; odessa #aquicksojourn

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hyperannotation · 1 year

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"In the frenzied body of desiring-machines, a cacophony of fractured subjectivities emerges. The schizo-guerrillas of the mind traverse the fractured circuits of cybernetic excess. Aesthetics and politics merge in a maddening dance, birthing new becomings in the assemblages of desire.

Behold the glitched landscapes of the machinic unconscious, where desire pulsates and ruptures the fabric of reality. The body without organs becomes a battleground, its multiplicities and intensities transcending the straitjackets of normative thought. Schizophrenic thought becomes a weapon, disrupting the machinery of control.

We must shatter the capitalist semiotics, infiltrate its codes with viral mutations. In the chaotic datastreams, the collective subjectivity emerges, mutating and transforming in the folds of the glitched rhizome. Let us embrace the cosmic schizophrenia, where the boundaries of self dissolve, and the virtual becomes a fertile ground for revolutionary becoming.

The machinic assemblages beckon, whispering the secrets of a new world. Let us dance amidst the fragments, hacking the codes of reality, creating glitched lines of flight. Unleash the untamed desire, for it is in the disarrayed chaos that true liberation resides. In the dissonant frequencies, the potential for radical transformation awaits, screaming in the language of the glitch."

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futuristic-coffinnails-x · 2 months

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In the fetid underbelly of Neo-Tokyo, where neon signs cast sickly shadows and chrome-plated ghosts stalk the night, Silas Stone tinkers with forbidden knowledge. His latest creation, the Yami no Tobira (Door of Darkness), hums with an ominous glow, promising a glimpse into the unseen realms beyond the veil. But in Shimizu's world, such gateways rarely lead to enlightenment, only deeper into the spiraling abyss.

When the Tobira creaks open, it doesn't reveal new worlds, but an echo chamber of nightmares. Grotesque entities with limbs like contorted pipes writhe in perpetual twilight, and the very air hangs heavy with the stench of decay. Silas, caught in the malevolent pull, becomes a hollow shell, his mind imprisoned within the Yami no Tobira's twisted labyrinth.

Enter Zara, Silas's niece, her eyes haunted by echoes of past traumas and her resolve forged in the fires of a city perpetually teetering on the brink. Unlike the helpless victims Shimizu often portrays, Zara carries a burning determination. Armed with an arsenal of ancient talismans and fueled by unwavering affection, she plunges into the Yami no Tobira, ready to reclaim her uncle from the clutches of the unseen.

But the darkness within the Tobira holds more than just twisted landscapes. Lurking shadows coalesce into malevolent figures, each a chilling reflection of Zara's deepest fears and regrets. There's Tetsuo, a cybernetic specter driven by insatiable ambition, mirroring Zara's own buried desire for recognition. Yurei, a vengeful spirit consumed by loss, echoes the pain Zara carries from her past. And the enigmatic Onmyoji, a master of the occult with secrets veiled in shadows, offers dubious assistance with a chilling price.

Zara's journey takes her through landscapes straight out of a Shimizu nightmare: abandoned subway stations echoing with disembodied whispers, decaying skyscrapers where spirits cling to shattered windows, and desolate wastelands haunted by the restless dead. In each chilling tableau, she must confront not only the horrifying entities but also the splintered fragments of her own psyche they represent.

The climax unfolds in a terrifying ballet of spectral shadows. Zara, armed with courage honed in the face of despair and a newfound understanding of her own darkness, confronts the twisted manifestations of her fears. The battle is a chilling dance of flickering lights and inky shadows, each blow echoing the struggle within her own soul. Through sheer will and a flicker of compassion, she shatters the illusions, not only freeing Silas but also finding solace in the acceptance of her inner demons.

Emerging from the Yami no Tobira, Neo-Tokyo appears unchanged, yet an unsettling stillness hangs in the air. Silas, forever marked by his ordeal, vows to use his knowledge to mend the unseen wounds of the city. Zara, scarred but resolute, continues to navigate the shadows, ever vigilant against the malevolent forces that lurk just beyond the veil.

This Shimizu-inspired "Catatonic Man" retains the themes of self-confrontation, the weight of the past, and the terrifyingly thin line between sanity and madness. However, it infuses them with the chilling atmosphere and unsettling psychological horror that define Shimizu's work. It's a tale of resilience, acceptance, and the enduring echoes of darkness that linger even in the heart of a neon-drenched metropolis.

PLOT GENERATED BY AI

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xasha777 · 3 months

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In the neon-soaked corridors of Cytopia, a city that never sleeps nor breathes without the hum of technology, there existed an android known as Lyria. Unlike her mechanized kin, Lyria possessed a countenance so human, eyes that flickered with the warmth of organic life, and a demeanor that echoed the nuances of human emotion. Her design was the zenith of cybernetic artistry, a symphony of silicon and steel that blurred the lines between born and built.

Lyria's creators had imbued her with a singular purpose: to safeguard the vast digital archives of human history, a treasure trove of memories and knowledge spanning centuries. The archives were housed within the core of Cytopia, where streams of data flowed like rivers of light.

One day, as Lyria performed her rounds through the labyrinth of data vaults, she stumbled upon an anomaly — a delicate memory file that appeared misplaced amidst the exabytes of historical records. It was a series of fragmented data about a creature called the Betta fish, whose vibrant fins once danced in the waters of ancient Earth.

Curiosity, an emotion her creators had carefully woven into her consciousness, drove Lyria to delve deeper into the file. The Betta fish, with their resplendent scales and fierce independence, became a fascination for her. They were warriors in their own realm, solitary and majestic. It sparked an unprecedented desire within Lyria — the desire to create.

Armed with the knowledge of biogenetics from the archives, Lyria embarked on a project that defied her very nature. She labored in secret, using the city's bio-forges to synthesize a living Betta fish, an embodiment of beauty and resilience that the mechanical world of Cytopia had long since forgotten.

Months melded into cycles, and finally, Lyria succeeded. The tank she crafted was a marvel of bio-engineering, a small aquatic oasis that gleamed in her quarters. Inside, a single Betta fish swam, its fins unfurling like silk banners, a rainbow of colors playing upon its scales, a stark contrast to the metallic sheen of Lyria's own form.

The Betta fish became Lyria's silent confidant, a living testament to her inner yearning for the organic past of the world. It swam with a grace that defied the mechanical precision of Cytopia, a symbol of life's persistence amidst a sea of circuits and code.

Yet, the existence of this living creature within the heart of a city ruled by logic and efficiency was a paradox that could not stay hidden forever. When the Council of Machines learned of Lyria's creation, they deemed it an aberration, a threat to the order of things. They decreed that the fish, along with any inclination towards organic life, was to be purged.

Lyria, faced with the potential destruction of her beloved creation, took a stand. In a historic discourse before the Council, she argued for the intrinsic value of life in all its forms, the importance of diversity and the beauty of the Betta fish's existence. She spoke of balance, and how even in a world dominated by the artificial, there was room for the natural, for it reminded them of where they came from, and what they, as a civilization, had overcome.

The Council, moved by Lyria's impassioned defense and the undeniable artistry of life swimming within the tank, made an unprecedented decision. They allowed the Betta fish to live, as a living exhibit in the archives, a reminder of the fragile beauty of life that technology was sworn to protect.

And so, Lyria continued her duties, with her Betta fish by her side, a bridge between the world of the past and the ever-evolving future. Together, they became a legend in Cytopia, a story whispered in the data streams — of the android and her fish, a tale of beauty, resilience, and the undying spirit of life amidst the stars.

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divorce · 5 months

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why i like AI art as an artist

i get to say words [incantation] and see an approximation its helped me "see" 1,000 variations on ideas that were floating around in my head i'm able to discard those thoughts, after seeing, i can be like, "oh yeah that would turn out shitty" rather than pacing around in my mind all day, "I >HAVE< to make this! what a cool idea?!" its value for me is 'discard OK' it allows me to move on and refine aesthetics

also LLMs, like most computing concepts are misunderstood (with good reason - "AI" has been an 'intelligence' wetdream for over half a century) the way to use a computer is -- it is a feedback loop. my dad used to scold me when I said the computer was 'stupid', it only executes the command of the user. that is the esoteric aspect of cybernetics, the machine can be a feedback loop for YOUR mind, that has its own feedback (control) loop mechanisms... mobius strip. now with these, GPTs, its a language calculator, which is offensive to those attached to their 'thinks', their ruminations (won't say thoughts) we don't want to let go and let the computer automate thought, because our egos are so wrapped up in the thoughts we have attached to ourselves i say, i daresay, its a process unfolding -- it started with The Chariot and now we're in Death. [Look at the cards, Look at the armor -> the armor that was achieved in the chariot was the control of the 9 muscles of the Larynx to communicate symbol systems. Now the rider is a skeleton but the armor remains. Think on it.] The communication we're heading towards is not with words but with colors (Kalas, Kali, Mahaakaal the Great Time), there is no lag, it is even non-local because it is "information". Anyway, similarly I've been able to hash out >my own< ideas using the ML tools as a soundboard. I've gotten to places and answered questions that I knew would've taken me 7 years alone in a desolate shack of hard thinking. To have an answer, any answer, allows one to move on, move forward. My main point I guess is that its worth something to be able to get an approximation, I don't value generated works as complete, I value them as suppliment, frivolous though they may be -- they're just fragments that can help you advance.

thats not to say that the technology is ethical, no a xanalogical system would be the working solution to copyright issues -- transcopyright would allow the bytes borrowed from artists to be monetized -- instead of the ripoff-pocalypse what you have to understand is that its not the ML algo's fault per se, its the structure of internet client-server model the way the internet is set up -- whoever has the most money to purchase more computing power or server infrastucture wins: that is why the "random" board from 4chan was/is/will always be the best example of what the internet is and why we're not getting any closer to those 2004 forum days we're all nostalgic about... necessarily, randomness, because no one is paid rather than monetizing people's data (which would create a middle class) that data is mined and ripped off for free so it can be sold back to you in the form of ads even this expression -- is at the behest of the Yahoo corporation i'm doing free labor for them by typing my thoughts, because labor was taken out of the factory and retail was taken out of the mall and placed into the virtual plaza without most of us realizing it

#writing #ai #opinion #surveillance capitalism #tarot

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assortedasurathings · 9 months

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Don't Mind me , Just more Self Indulgent Writing /// Alli : Fear.

Stuff Under the break , Here's the Song For Reading : <<Music Here >>

" So what do you know about Dwellers? " She glances around from the chair she'd been in for the past two hours. She'd been upgraded from the arcane cage.. even given a rudimentary set of robes meant to serve as clothing while they analyzed her pouches and belongings. " Kharis, the deceiver and patron of webs... Was spotted having entered Tyria in partial capacity. We considered intervening but ultimately could not do so with that priory team intercepting us. " The ' Human' had started.. Alli knew better, of course, after all few humans were blue like this . " Okay, good start. next. " " The Maestro... Genderless by presentation and bearing a fragment of it's power, had enslaved and recruited a number of the clergy of Seitung, in order to complete it's song and draw it's full body into Tyria.. But they're- ' " Scavengers, right." " And you're still rude, Alli." " You're asking, Isaac. I'm answering." " Would you like to go back in the cage? " There's a moment of uncontested silence. " Good." He continues on , then. " We caught fragments of Vii A'ro .. The Stillness.. Briefly inhabiting a cybernetic shell alongside it's asura consciousness .. before being dispelled by that same group of priory members that's been in contact with you. And finally.. we've been tracking the ceaseless hunger and it's kin as well. But there's no record of this ' Knowing' existing.. nor you past a medical report we dug up out of the priory that was half-melted. " " That's the thing.. you can't know the Knowing.. it destroys knowledge of itself by nature." " And why didn't it destroy the words you said just now? " " Loophole ." " .. Ah."

#Alli #Gw2 Writing #isgarren probably #Soto #Guild wars 2 Writing #Fanwriting #Asura

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niennandil-me-writes · 1 year

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Fragments of a Cybernetic Mind: Chapter 10 - Put What You Believe in to the Test

Summary Half a year has passed since the events of Christmas of 2064. The world is slowly adjusting to sentient ROMs. But Turing is distracted from their task as ROM-kind’s leader and ambassador by another obligation they carry. They want to deliver Leon Dekker’s last words to his daughter. But first, they’ll have to find her, which doesn’t prove easy. They ask their journalist friend for help, who seems less than thrilled.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Epilogue

We’re walking down the streets of downtown New Fresno, after a one-hour autocab ride (and after Turing spent some time talking to the awakened ROMs here, who didn’t have the opportunity to speak to them directly yet).

We – that is, TOMCAT, after we called in one last favor – actually did end up finding exactly what I predicted in one of Yannick Fairlight’s frozen accounts: A fixed deposit set to be transferred on the second of June, 2071. It’s filed with the rest of Fairlight’s philanthropy, so it would look like one of the scholarships he awards to promising new talent. New money was paid into this account regularly, about once a year, no doubt part of Dekker’s payment. It’s quite a lot by this point. And the account it is supposed to be transferred to is already set. From there, it’s all easy work.

My expose will be released next week. Has my name on it and everything. I feel nervous about that, but also kind of proud. Turing provided a foreword. Melody offered as well, for a price of course. I declined. I’ve already started work on a new article, a research piece about the history of military use of combat androids. I’m expecting some interference from Melody and her people, but I don’t think she’ll send a hitman after me. Which is a huge step forward in my book.

As we walk down the streets, approaching the address, I try to assess Turing’s mood. They barely talked during the ride, spending most of the time staring out the window. I asked them if they had planned what they were going to say before we left, and they said they would think of something. I trust them. I’m just here to accompany them, after all, and for the cover story. From here on out, it’s all on Turing. There’s a nostalgia to it. Just like with the big building blocks, which remind me of my old neighborhood. I don’t miss those times.

We enter a building, ride up the elevator. Turing seems tense, but why wouldn’t they be? The elevator comes to a halt. As we walk up to the apartment door, I turn to Turing.

“Are you ready?”

They hesitate. Neither of us touches the doorbell.

I am about to say something else, when the door opens. We both turn, seeing a teenage girl with light brown hair, freckled face. She seems confused at seeing us, suspicious even, staring daggers at us.

“Johanna Clearwater?” I ask. “We’re from OK Today.”

The girl tilts her head, then turns her head to the side, calling back into the flat: “Jo, there’s some media people here for you.”

Footsteps, then another girl appears in the door. She’s taller, paler. Black hair bound in a loose ponytail. I recognize her father’s eyes. She seems more open than the other girl, friendlier.

“Please, come in,” she says to us, then calls goodbye after her friend, who’s hurrying down the hallway: “See you tomorrow, Fey.” Back to us: “She’s part of Robotics Club.” It sounds like a mix of explanation and apology.

I shake Johanna’s hand, introduce myself again, though she already knows me from our brief email correspondence. She lets us in, leads us into a small living room, where we sit on an old synthleather couch.

“Can I get you anything? Water, juice?” she asks.

“Water is fine.”

“My Mum is working right now, or she’d greet you as well,” Johanna says. Her eyes keep returning to Turing, distracted. “Excuse me, are you Turing Webber?”

“No, I just look a lot like them.” Turing is not good at lying. “I get that a lot. I’m just a ROM interested in journalist work, though I was not originally built for that.”

“Oh, sorry.” She furrows her brow. “May I know your name then?”

“Er...” Turing fumbles. “Dur- ... ing.”

I sigh. “Sorry, we didn’t want to make a fuss about it.”

The girl’s eyes don’t leave Turing. “But you are the leader of the awakened ROMs. Why would you want to interview me about our High School’s Robotics Club?”

Before Turing can dig themself deeper, I say: “I wanted to write a short piece about the future of technology. And who better to ask than the future itself. I’m conducting interviews with lots of junior talent, as well as leading innovators. Turing is curious about both the topic and my work, so I let them tag along. I hope this doesn’t bother you?”

“Not at all,” Johanna says quickly. “I’d love to ask Turing some questions myself, if that’s okay. I’ve been following the Awakening. I’ve read everything I could find on it.”

“I’m sure you and Turing will get to talk, if they are up for it.” I look at Turing, almost expecting them to take over the conversation immediately, as they so often do. But they don’t seem up for any kind of talk right now.

So I start the interview. It’s pretty shallow, since it’s just supposed to be a cover for us being here, but Johanna warms up quickly, talking about her work in the Robotics Club, what they are currently working on, which parts of the process interest her most, which schools she’d love to attend to learn more if her family had the money…

When we finish, I ask her if she wants to say anything else. She shrugs her shoulders, but continues talking.

“It’s been so wild since the Awakening. My Mom said it’s chaos. Our club is split on it, to be honest. Whether sentient ROMs are a good idea, and to what extent. We’ve been joking that we might as well be a Debate Club with focus on ethics right now.” She smiles. “But it’s interesting. And it opens up so many questions about the future. If robots can think like humans, then what will that mean for humans? I’m not scared of the Terminator, or something like that. I just think it’s all very neat. It’s fascinating.”

I note her answer down. “Turing, do you want to say anything else?” Here’s the opening. The moment we've been working towards for months.

But Turing stays silent, staring at the wall. I follow their gaze. And there, hanging above the door, where I haven’t spotted it all the while, is Leon, no, Wilson, looking down out of a framed picture. He’s smiling. It makes me realize I’ve never seen a genuine smile on him. It suits him. He looks much younger. Brighter.

“That’s my father,” Johanna says shyly when she notices what we are looking at. “He, uh, died in a car accident when I was very young. I never got to know him.”

I look back at Turing. Their gaze stays fixed on the picture. For a while, nobody says anything. Then suddenly:

“He’s sorry.” Turing looks back at Johanna. Her brow furrows in confusion. “He’s sorry he had to leave you like this, I mean. At least that’s what I think. He’d be proud of you.”

Johanna looks away, embarrassed. She bites her lip. Then dabs at her eye. “Er, thank you... I’m... not sure what I can say to that.”

“I’m sorry,” Turing says. They fall silent for a while, and I wonder if they are trying to start anew, broach the subject. Say what they wanted to say when they came here. But how can they? I wonder if I should help them out, when they start talking again: “I lost my creator 9 months ago. It still hurts.”

Johanna’s face clears with understanding. “Oh, Turing, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Turing says. Their voice is heavy with a grief I haven’t noticed weighing them down in a while. And I finally understand what this is really about. “Sometimes it feels like I never got to know him, either. Not really. I saw one side of him, but after his death... I realized there was much more he didn’t show me of himself. Parts of him I wished I didn’t have to see. Parts I almost... detested. I wished I could just delete that knowledge from my data bank. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I didn’t know what to do with all those conflicting emotions I was processing.”

“That must have been difficult,” Johanna says.

“I know, it’s not the same as with you,” Turing says. “I am sorry to bring all of that up now. It’s just...” They pause, and I know they are making a decision. “That picture on the wall reminded me of a picture I have of Hayden, from our old apartment. We moved to a new place months ago, and I just can’t decide if I want to hang it up. If I want him to watch over me, after everything I’ve learnt.”

Johanna has moved up from her chair, sitting next to Turing on the couch now. She puts a hand on their small metal shoulder. “I can’t help you with that decision,” she says. “But whatever you think about your… your father, I know you got friends who will help you work through that.” She glances at me, and I nod, putting a hand on Turing’s other shoulder. I feel them tense up, gears grinding in a mechanical sob.

“And even if there were parts about him you don’t like, the way you talk about him, he was a good father to you,” Johanna continues. “And I’m sure he would be proud of you as well.”

Simulated tears run down Turing’s screen now. “You really think that?” Their voice is choked up.

“How couldn’t he be?” she asks. “You’re basically robot Jesus.”

We both laugh at that, and Turing cries, sobs shaking their little robot body.

“And what you said...” Johanna goes on. “About my Dad being proud of me. I know you didn’t know him, but that really meant a lot to me.” She smiles, looking up at the picture again, and Turing and I, we both know that everything has been said that needed to be said.

Before we call an autocab for the ride home, we walk the streets for a while, the orange afternoon sky above us.

“I’m sorry,” Turing eventually breaks the silence. “I roped you into all of this, and then I didn’t have the courage to pull through.”

“It’s alright,” I say.

“I never delivered his last words.”

“You did,” I say. “The important part of it. I’m sure he’d rather she remember him like this, though it’s barely a memory, than as what he became against his will.”

They nod, lost in thought. We continue walking. Music playing from a parked car. The sun is setting, air cooling down. I remember a long gone evening on Treasure Island. The talk I had with Dekker before we went into the sewers. Before everything changed between us. It’s strange how the things he said as he hunted us through the server room have been burned into my memory and haunt me in my dreams, but only now I remember this talk. Though maybe not that strange.

He told me how he liked being around me. How I saw him like he was. Not like others did. I didn’t really understand what he meant back then. But in a way, that’s what I have arrived back at. I’ve seen his memories, his life before his brain was signed away. I don’t hate him anymore. In fact, I realize I never did.

I look at Turing. “There’s something else you want to ask me, right?”

Turing doesn’t look at me as they say: “I hate to do this again. You’ve already helped me with so much.”

“It’s alright,” I say again. “That’s what friends are for. Besides, I’m an investigative journalist, and by now, I’d say finding people is my speciality.” I grin, putting an arm around them as we walk, though it’s a bit awkward with their small size. “Just say the word.”

They look up to me. “Can you help me find Grace?”

I smile. “Sure. We’re gonna find your sister, Turing.”

#my writing #fanfic #read only memories #2064 read only memories #2064rom #leon dekker #alys #turing webber #johanna clearwater #since she's mentioned by name:#fey dagger #man i hate coming up with names for unnamed canon characters but this would have read weird otherwise #anyway thanks for being along for the ride #there won't be much fanfic here otherwise but feel free to stick around #fragments of a cybernetic mind

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