#we will return to our regularly scheduled programming at some point
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Todays rip: 05/12/2023
It's Snowy but its snowy
Season 2
Featured on: Rips of Christmas Past
Ripped by Ahmaykmewsik
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And so, we return to our regularly scheduled, holiday-season programming. Though, its a bit more low-key this time - I talked quite highly last week about Patched Plains Fusion Collab and snow halation but it shreds (and rightfully so), yet those were both rips made for very special occasions. The amount of love poured into those rips was both evident, yet also somewhat expected given the context they were released in, as part of a greater event. And part of what I love about It's Snowy but its snowy is how its able to be excellent despite being in the complete opposite context - a rip amidst a sea of others, quietly ringing its bells of cheer, hoping someone's around to notice it.
And like, it was kind of obvious to me that It's Snowy but its snowy was going to end up affecting me in some way. This is ripper Ahmaykmewsik's fourth appearance on the blog, after already being behind one of my all-time favorites in Your Silent Reality - the guy has a long track record of being very good at tugging at your heart strings. Yet again, what I love about It's Snowy but its snowy is that its able to do that whilst not exactly being loud-and-proud about its own quality. It's a seven minute rip without much in the way of twists or dramatic turns - instead, its a comforting, soothing medley arrangement, of various Christmas songs played with the same piano instrumentation as the original Snowy. On top of that, SiIva's typical draw of bait-and-switching its audience is lost completely here: the rip's title spoils the common thread with each of its edits.
Yet without ceremony, without surprise, without subversion, and even without the context to really warrant it, It's Snowy but its snowy delivers exactly what it promises with absolute splendor. There's small little flourishes on top to tie the whole package together - faint sounds of Undertale characters talking, instrument cues from Temmie Village at one point, a faint sound effect from the Genocide Route - little things bringing your mind back to Undertale, as if you're taking a stroll through the Underground during the holiday season. Yet it never distracts or shies away from the main point of the rip - to be seven minutes of calm, soothing reminiscence on the Christmas season.
For as exciting as the aforementioned other Christmas rips were, I find myself returning to It's Snowy but its snowy far more often - at least once every Christmas, and several more times in the months inbetween. Because that excitement that Patched Plains Fusion Collab holds, while palpable, is sort of fleeting - it was building up to an event which we've now mostly seen unfold. Ahmaykmewsik channels that other part of Christmas cheer - the fondness of nostalgia, of remembering the good times, and celebrating the music that we've loved since we were children. Its easy to feel fed up with White Christmas and Winter Wonderland, yet deep down I find it hard to truly be antagonistic of them given just how much the Christmas season means to me every year.
Hey, its just a few weeks left, everyone. Happy Holidays.
#todays siivagunner#season 2#siivagunner#siiva#Ahmaykmewsik#undertale#utdr#toby fox#sans undertale#papyrus undertale#undertale music#undertale ost#christmas#holidays#xmas#festive#xmas 2023#merry christmas#christmas music#christmas songs#holiday music#Youtube#Bandcamp
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So I wanna vent, about something really quick, and then we'll go back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I like, hate. College. I hate it, I hate the premise, I hate that they're bleeding me for money, but most of all I hate the people. If I could do college with 5 other people and we all had our own rooms I think I'd like it more. It started snowing today, and the campus is covered in snow. And if you know anything about me, I hate the cold. I hate being cold, I hate being outside in the cold. Because when it's cold, it's guaranteed I'll probably get sick. I'll get chills, the flu, a cold, something.
I wanted to go to a college in North Carolina, but they didn't accept me for an art program, so I ended up at my current college in small-town Pennsylvania. It's cold here, in the winter. it's so goddamn cold I don't want to go outside. I shouldn't go outside. And lucky for me I don't have to go outside because I have everything I need, inside, where it's warm, and I won't die by slipping on ice.
But apparently, my roommate thinks I'm STUPID for calling one of my co-workers to see if my job on campus would still be open. When I could've just "Walked outside to see if they're open" and "It's not that cold". FIRST OF ALL the air outside has to be a certain degree to even freeze the water in the sky and make it dense enough to fall out of the sky in the form of snow. in other words, IT HAS TO BE COLD, TO MAKE COLD WEATHER, AKA SNOW. And I left my warmest coat back home by accident, so I'm even less guarded against the cold weather. And I'm also anemic, it doesn't matter how many fucking layers I put on, I can still be, (and usually am) cold. She wouldn't let me explain why I don't find it necessary to go outside in the cold when I can just as easily find out the information I need by CALLING SOMEONE ON THE PHONE. Yeah sure she may not be here on campus, however, this probably isn't the first time the school's shut down because of weather, she would probably know if the school job that we both work would still be open. Which she did, and now I know whenever the school is shut down, my job is too.
I started to raise my voice because when someone insults me, the natural reaction is to defend myself. And when someone repeatedly interrupts you in conversation, wrongly assuming you're done and continuing to invalidate your feelings and emotions because THEY think it's STUPID and you're being DUMB AND IRRATIONAL about weather you aren't used to, their argument being "You have to get used to it at some point since you live here now"
Technically, I don't actually live here. I don't have a permanent residency here. I can't vote in this state. I live in a warmer southern state. My home is in another state. I am "living" on a college campus. But in the next 3 years? I'm not going to be able to live here. I don't stay here during the winter and summer. I go HOME. I FLY TO ANOTHER STATE. Technically I don't HAVE to get used to shit. I can get my degree, and move to fucking California where it doesn't ever snow. And I can hate the cold all the same. Because it's my right to not like cold weather, yeah I complain about it, but I know it's something I have to deal with. That doesn't mean I have to "learn to get used to it" right now just because you fucking say so. And you don't have to fucking call me stupid and illogical every time I don't want to go outside. That's rude. You can think it, but you don't have to say it. I'm seriously starting to rethink my friendship with this person because we can be fine and friendly, and instantly jump into an argument fucking 5 SECONDS later. I don't want to even live with this person anymore, I'm just dealing with it because the alternative is living with someone I don't know.
UGH IM SO PISSED OFF
anyway, rant over. Now we return to the regularly scheduled programming. 🍫
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Dear Madame Secretary,
I hope you are well. I am writing a formal appeal on behalf of my dear Friend and Comrade. It appears that my friend has committed herself to a specific agenda and deals have been struck. However, as one is surely aware, the muse cannot be bullied into submission nor into the tidy boxes of a schedule. A muse is not a restaurant with a menu that one can order from at will. I beseech you, please allow some leniency for my inspired and tired friend, who has a new story that is just itching to be written, and allow her to return to regularly scheduled programming once the muse's whims have been sated.
Yours truly,
Merc.
Dear Merc,
I'm doing quite well as the temperatures here are finally becoming bearable I hope you are also well and thank you for asking. I want to let you know that I have had some time to think about your request and how to go about it. I even reached out to the old secretary and he was very kind to point me in the direction I should go when it comes to these matters as he always does. As someone who is very rigid when it comes to lists and deadlines it is indeed very hard for me to allow leeway when it comes to task. It's why she hired me of course!
However as someone who also does dabble in writing sometimes I understand that once a muse has occurred it must be written lest you lose passion for anything else.
So after discussing with the Boss and hammering some things out I'm happy to say we have been able to come to a favorable agreement that will allow her to scratch that itch before returing to other matters! We will also be reviewing our current system going forward to see how we can be more flexiable without reintroducing issues from before. I'm very apperciative of your message and hope that this answer is what you hoped for.
Best,
An ever improving secretary
Blossom 🌸
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We all know how you feel about Trump and I think most of us feel the same way. But I'm seriously curious if there is ANYthing that he did as president or that his administration did that you can praise or at least see some positive part of from your view point as a historian?
Believe it or not, I was totally supportive of President Trump's meetings with Kim Jong Un. I don't think it is a mistake for our leaders to meet directly with our rivals or potential adversaries. I understand the geopolitical strategy that suggests that by unconditionally meeting face-to-face with North Korea's leaders we are somehow validating their actions or normalizing them on the international stage. However, I disagree with that argument. The Kim dynasty has been in complete control of North Korea for 70 years and the American policy of diplomatic isolation has not changed that fact. If what we've been doing for generations has not been working, why not attempt something radically different?
The United States didn't lift the sanctions against North Korea or really do anything different other than having our President sit down with their leader. I have always believed that the U.S. should be open to dialogue with countries or systems that we disagree with. President Obama's meetings with Raúl Castro and visit to Cuba was another example of dialogue that should have happened decades ago. I had hoped President Clinton might meet with Iranian President Mohammad Khatami when it seemed like there was a possibility for an opening in the late-1990s. It's impossible for any sort of diplomacy to blossom without some form of dialogue, and Presidents are in a unique position to shape those conversations if they are willing to start them. So, there you go, I thought Trump's meetings with Kim Jong Un were a positive.
(Now, with that said, I think it's disconcerting that Trump was so anxious to share the letters that Kim sent to him with reporters while seeming to work very hard at keeping his own end of the correspondence from becoming public.)
I also think the Trump Administration deserves some credit for the Abraham Accords, which aren't perfect but still a meaningful start for normalizing diplomatic relations between Israel and several Arab nations, especially since it established a formal connection between the Israelis and Emiratis, which is a potential game-changer economically and for security issues in the Middle East.
Some people might also give the Trump Administration some credit for kickstarting the process of developing and approving COVID vaccines in record time, but it's difficult to give the Administration credit for anything related to a pandemic that they bungled in historic fashion. It's worth noting that they also had basically no plan for the logistics of actually vaccinating anybody in this country. I mean, if I discovered a house full of starving children (I don't know how or why that would happen) and cooked a bunch of food for them in record time, I wouldn't get credit for it if I didn't actually feed them, right?
Please excuse that ridiculous analogy -- I'm dizzy and nauseous from having to give Trump's Administration credit for anything. Please don't ask me to try to do that again. We will now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 92: AEGIS
Table of Contents Third Instar, Chapter 23. Go to previous. Go to next. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. Appreciate your patience and continued readership. Been having a lot of real life turmoil in the past few months.
This concludes the set of four achronological chapters, which I've termed the "Lockreed Tetralogy." I structured them in such a way that they're sorted into four chapters by theme and relevance, to emulate a sense of "disk repair scan," but if you would also like to read them in chronological order, I have made a Neocities page for it here. I think trying to format it as it appears in HTML, through Tumblr, has taken a year off my life.
It feels ironic that the fourth chapter doesn't have much in the way of content warnings. There's some vague eldritch fuckery afoot, and a bit of memory glitching. Hopefully not too bad.
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"Aegis-bearing Zeus has a design for each occasion, and mortals find this hard to comprehend." — Hesiod's Theogeny
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Data integrity recovery... 99%... Please do not power off your system.
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January 5, 2288
The terminal bonks at 'Choly, to inform him he's used up all his tries for the hour. He's locked out. Again. He slouches and massages his nose bridge behind his glasses.
This would be so much easier if I could get my Pip-Boy working again... and if I had a decryption holotape for it.
Breaking windows isn't an option now that they've solved the building brownout, but the odds of this current trick working are still far higher, he thinks, now that they've restored full power. They just have to remember not to touch the exposed wiring in any security glass Sticks has already shattered.
Despite resistance logging into the admin's terminal at the reception desk, he remains confident that it is crucial to programming his ribbon rack and Lt. Creeley's. He found the required peripheral equipment in a drawer the other day, and a personnel management software manual remains among the reference texts on the desk. He's been at it going on two weeks, without hacking script at his disposal, and nothing at the reception desk seems to point to any clues.
If only the admin were so negligent to have written down the password and tucked it unceremoniously in the desk, or in any of the folders or books.
He sucks a Mentat and skims the desktop again anyway. When he started coming down here to get into the terminal, he would bring his gauss homework with him, but bouncing between failure and rejection is wearing on him more than he can admit. He quickly loses motivation searching the desktop, and lets himself read one of the books to occupy himself for the next hour.
He finds that the orientation text has a unit on the history of this Lockreed site. Maybe it can shed light on the General's interest in this place. Sticks insists she just stole all the robots, but 'Choly knows there's more to it. There's so much more, he swears. There's not any evidence robots have ever been employed here, for starters--there's no storage bays or workbenches, no maintenance equipment, no fuel, no mentions of them in company procedure materials--and the only robot they know is in the building at this given moment is Angel. Understanding just how deep this rabbit trail goes might not solve the primary obstacle that traps them here, but it will still check off a high priority task for them.
So, he reads. His sole taps along the low-pile carpeting, to the faint jazzy tune which saunters the well-lit empty halls of the first floor. The more populated that he learns the world is, the more accustomed to solitude he grows. He's proven he's not as isolated as he thought. All that matters to him is that he's alone by choice.
Interfacing and telemetry prodigies founded the security systems company SysDef in 2052. RobCo negotiated partnership with SysDef, then RobCo bought them in order to procure the patents for their state-of-the-art interfacing protocols. The buyout shifted the company vision: as RobCo Entertainment, they came to script video games. RobCo Entertainment's lavish library could be enjoyed on any RobCo processing system. Thanks to SysDef, that would include the pride of RobCo's Lowell location: the 'Personal Information Processor,' endeared to the world as the Pip-Boy.[2288.01.05-1]
No wonder RobCo devices are compatible with those of so many different companies. The SysDef patent set them a league apart from the rest. Impressed but restless, 'Choly bites through the remaining wafer of Mentat left in his mouth.
His discoveries do substantiate his months of paranoia. It's no secret that RobCo had always partnered heavily with the military, and the military saw special promise in RobCo Entertainment. The federal defense complex orchestrated annexation of the company under their Lockreed Industries. As Lockreed of Nashua, the company resumed full focus on defense systems development. Beyond mention that they had been coding aerospace technologies, the text does not indicate exactly what the military had contracted them to produce for them in the years leading up to the Great War. His only clue is that any questions regarding S.C.Y.T.H.E. Program projects must be routed through the director.
'Choly recalls the crates of ballistics fiber at Boott Mills were labeled S.C.Y.T.H.E. property, too.[2288.01.05-2]
"I really wish I knew what that stood for, damn it."
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February 4, 2288
A terminal with an unburnt screen.
'Choly sits down at a cubicle in an office on an upper floor. He's been wandering a wider path researching the military documentation in the building ever since Sticks began making trips outside. Despite the degree of preservation throughout the premises, because something seems to have prevented the screensaver script on many terminals from triggering, centuries of disuse have burned images deep into their screens. The glow bleed on inoperable terminals, he imagines, resembles what it must be like to stare into the sun.
He hopes he's not Icarus.
It doesn't take long for him to ascertain that whoever once occupied this desk used its terminal for a diary. It's encrypted by pay grade. He unfurls his Pip-Boy keyprong to attempt his password decryption algorithm. Before he can analyze the possible correct commands among the guesses on the screen, a synchronization between a biometric sensor in the room and his nameplate verifies his identity and O-6 pay grade.
It dismisses the encryption check. He's had no reason to wear his bekesha-tulup indoors, so he's tucked his ribbon rack and nameplate into the small pocket in his Vault Suit's lining. Still, he would have expected secure terminals to require more than his physical presence to access them, but he supposes it's not too unlike a unique fingerprint, if the building's biometrics are as advanced as he suspects. He leans into the keyboard and favors proximity to the screen such that he can remove his glasses.
Delight flushes over any possible terror, to recognize the last active user of this terminal was Olivia Francis, then designated Major General.
April 12 2096
I knew this moment would come, but here I am. I may have set up here as a contingency because it was the next nearest secure military property, but there's a very real possibility its SCYTHE products could be the key to reclaiming Deenwood. I'll stay here a few weeks to get a head start on my research before heading to the mall to regroup.
He cannot imagine what enemy hand could accomplish the feat of seizing Deenwood. He squirms, and smiles knowing from history that their occupation was temporary.
April 30 2096
I resent that the... tests disfigured me, but resembling what the locals call a 'ghoul' has afforded me some degree of anonymity. I couldn't clear my head and instead shifted gears during my stay at the settlement that's sprung up inside the local shopping mall. It's my understanding that all Lockreed employees who survived Great War Day relocated at this 'Ant Lane.' They've integrated well enough that they've given me trouble tracking them down to question, but some still haven't broken the habit of wearing their Pip-Boys in public. I've found a lower-rung developer already. This Ken Luther knows nothing about AEGIS, remembers nothing notable about his tenure, and doesn't grasp why a scavenger would have much interest in a video game facility. Locating Brock Taskerlands would probably solve all my problems. For how hot he was to procure the property, he has to have known what he was buying into, but I need to continue under the likelihood that only his legacy lingers here.
After my stay, I know now what I must do. What I need is locked inside the mall, and the key to freeing it IS here.
He sits for some time. He rereads the entry trying to jog his memory of those names. Surely, he reassures himself, she had not set in motion the events which transpired last October. This couldn't have anything to do with the granite, or the fungus, or the hypnagogic chroma shifts, or the widespread acute memory damage.
He curses under his breath in a healthy mix of English and Russian. The idea that the General believed Taskerlands was actually remarkable ruffles him a great deal. Eventually, he jots some notes... Luther, Taskerlands, AEGIS... underscores Taskerlands, overwrites the name time and again with a strained gurn... and continues.
May 18 2096
At least one AEGIS technician survived the War, but she's since passed away. This Marion Rigley seems to have kept her classified training confidential and has shared only the most rudimentary repair methods. It's unthinkable that she couldn't recognize that her proprietary knowledge would prove invaluable in maintaining one of the largest and most effective bomb shelters on the Eastern Coast. Maybe she didn't believe Ant Lane would need to exist as a community much longer, and held onto the misguided idealism that the United States she knew might one day return to its glory days. Maybe she thought similar threats to human life have ceased to exist in this post-nuclear tapestry. Or maybe she knew that with an intimate familiarity with the system comes the capacity to abuse it. The irony almost stings.
June 9 2096
After speaking with some of the locals who maintain Ant Lane's walls, I convinced the Hall to let me look around their maintenance closet, under the guise that I wanted to know what sort of components to scavenge for repairs. They believe I'm interested in learning how to maintain the building. Beyond a doubt they have no knowledge whatsoever of the existence of a mainframe hidden somewhere on the property. I need to be more cautious because this is feeling a little too easy.
June 26 2096
The Lane is one Protectron lighter. No one noticed it wandered outside, and no one noticed it rejoined me one block away. I've proven I don't need access to the STAR Control mainframe to hack AEGIS. The robot will accompany me in a few days. I'll tell them that I found it and felt obligated to return it. When it rejoins the anechoic grid, it will transmit a Trojan frequency to the other robotics on site. It's a shame that STAR parameters only function within architectural boundaries designed for it. Otherwise, I might be able to conscript more robots than just these thirty Protectrons. Finally getting somewhere.
July 1 2096
The Hall let me keep the Protectron, which I've named Helen. They consider her defective since she was able to get outside the mall. I brought their attention to the reality that the robots on site have not undergone maintenance in twenty years, and they asked me if I couldn't take a look. I didn't expect to be able to freely repair and upgrade them prior to commandeering them. They've got me on robotics duty now. My plan exceeds my expectations already.
She's very efficient. It's sublime to finally have a robot of my own, after being surrounded by colleagues for decades whom the government legally required to have them. Even if she doesn't survive this scheme in one piece, I wholly intend to rebuild her. She's the beginning of something I hold dear.
July 24 2096
It's done. I tested the Trojan sequence. When interrogated on whether I tampered with the Protectrons, I underscored that I have nothing but the vitality of the Lane at heart. They blamed my repair work for the casualties, though no one could explain how the Protectrons and turrets all went haywire at once. Only steel and copper can reclaim Deenwood now. My efforts will nevertheless prevent needless slaughter at the hands of army traitors. The Court ruled it manslaughter, and motioned to dismiss all robots from the premises. I never met any of the Aldermen, but I'm thrilled they unwittingly ruled in my favor. When I told the Hall I would ensure total robot removal without further casualty, they decided that my guarantee outweighed taking my life. Some of the guards figured the robots would do me in either way. Going forward, they'll emphasize reliance on their security guards. I wish them all the luck.
Now that I have my reserve troops stationed inside Lockreed, I can uninstall the fabricated programming dysfunction, and convert the Trojan to my customized STAR parameters. I've been able to control Helen remotely. I'll be able to rein the others.
Those Academy of Liberty bastards won't know what hit them.
As expected, these diary entries raise more questions than they answer. When he tries to copy the entries to the JBD in his holotape deck, a permissions error bonks at him. The read function is locked behind an O-6 pay grade, but the write function is locked behind a confidentiality of O-8 or higher. He slaps the side of the terminal case, then pretends he's kidding. He smiles into himself as he retracts his key-prong.
It's fine. If he can't take the terminal's data to his current workspace, he'll take his current workspace to this terminal. This office desk boasts much more desk space than the cubicle downstairs anyway. And if he needs to, next time he can transcribe the entries himself manually.
But what did it all mean?
On his way back downstairs, he can't help but chuckle in a secondhand nostalgia regarding the humble beginnings of Helen's AI signature.[2288.02.04-1]
What other models has the General loaded her into? At what point did she become an Assaultron? His smile fades, but his spirit persists. What will her next model be?
He shakes his head with a tut and smirk.
"Of course See's is her fault. Of course it is."[2288.02.04-2]
He giggles and chuffs intermittently for hours, that the Lane likely never saw what its appointed squad of robots could have done drowning in the electromagnetic distortions of a postwar nor'easter... and that the General very likely never knew that she spared the Lane that tragedy by having rigged a smaller scale fake malfunction of her own.
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February 15, 2288
"I do hope you're finding what you're looking for here, Sir."
Angel tidies the space it has tidied three times already. It whistles as it whisks its feather-bare duster at the spotless shelves of the director's office.
"You know that I had to be certain we wouldn't set off the security systems by coming up here."
Seated at the desk, 'Choly paces the menus on its terminal. For some time, he chews at a pencil bridled between his teeth, and says nothing further.
"Here. Fucking fuck, I've got it." He removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes, then rereads the most recent of several entries. "The S.C.Y.T.H.E. Program outline for this site is all here. All this time I was expecting it entailed a product, but their project was... Fuck. Ant Lane was a military experiment. Listen to this. The director kept drafts of sales pitches, and mental notes of investors."
Pheasant Lane Mall, our most ambitious phase of the STAR Control program, showcases the versatility of our STAR Cores. The property's highly specialized proprietary AEGIS wiring, which provides the above ground vault with an interior secure of all electromagnetic radiation, incorporates twenty STAR Cores. AEGIS in this way blocks external radio frequencies, including EMPs and ionizing radiation, while still providing internal management of all RobCo robotics on site. Thirty Protectrons and fifty-three turrets guard Pheasant Lane. The mall's supervisor has total and simultaneous control of all robots within the boundaries of the mall, all with the convenience and ease of a RobCo mainframe.
Its position straddling the NH-MA state line was not just a strategy of finance but also one of function. Ideally, the convenient location will create opportunities for many to frequent the property. We hope its lavish amenities make it feel like a second home to locals and tourists alike.
"And another. This one's dated 2071."
Due to the high production costs of AEGIS infrastructure, it's been a decade since the completion of Pheasant Lane, and it's still the only standing testament to its virtues. Military interest in STAR Control got us bought into the Lockreed market, and it's kept us going in recent years thanks to S.C.Y.T.H.E. And now, we can applaud John-Caleb Bradberton's sizable investment in implementing yet another illustrious demonstration of STAR Control excellence, by contracting us in the development and erection of the Galactic Zone park in Nuka-World.[2288.02.15-1] Needless to say, as inheritors of the RobCo Entertainment headquarters, we have been quite delighted to see the space themed entertainment park outfitted with dozens of opportunities for visitors to engage with RobCo Games properties. However, the park development committee opted to bring in Vault-Tec in a multi-corporation collaborative decision, and while showcasing cohabitation of multiple big name brands at Nuka-World, it's also a glaring commentary on the failure of AEGIS as a vault technology, as AEGIS-based vaults make no appearance on its roster.
Securing steady funding wouldn't be such a struggle if the only thing that has kept House's interest in us was the SysDef interfacing protocols. He's been investing more and more in private sectors over his military holdings. It's why Lockreed got its hands on the company so easily. My Intel tells me his business habits have been seeming more and more like unhinged hobbies, but they can never seem to spit out what they mean.[2288.02.15-2]
Perhaps Bradberton's investment in STAR Control will inspire further investors going forward. After all, our telemetry doesn't require the costly AEGIS infrastructure.[2288.02.15-3] Drawing in investors like Bradberton will not only improve popular opinion of the military's advancements, but will fund them for decades. To say he's pleased with the Galactic Zone is an understatement. He's reached out to me regarding any other highly proprietary military technologies with which he could be permitted to outfit his park. I contacted Col. Nelson about it, and he's told me to direct him to some bigwig, Gen. Braxton. Mentioned something bigger than the S.C.Y.T.H.E. Program, too. Bradberton is among the world's wealthiest. I can only imagine what Nelson's offhand remark must mean the eccentric inventor's buying into next.[2288.02.15-4]
It's least of many evils, between House, Taskerlands[2288.02.15-5], and Bradberton. If only I could get inside the head of a billionaire. Do you go crazy with that much money, or does it take being crazy to earn it?
He falls quiet again as he engrosses himself in the documents, a majority of which bear timestamps dating between 2054 and 2062. He recalls that Sacristan Haidinger suggested Vault-Tec had nothing to do with Pheasant Lane Mall's value as a bomb shelter, and these archives confirm that the two companies never communicated or collaborated regarding the site. The government's Project Safehouse, most well known for spearheading Vault-Tec's construction of the majority of the nation's bomb shelters, had also commissioned independent contractors to try a varied civilian-oriented approach to national defense. (For example, Pulowski Shelters spring to mind.)
Several documents indicate that when the military lost interest in the financial viability of constructing subsequent structures like Pheasant Lane, interest still lingered in repurposing STAR Cores elsewhere. The biggest contract for them shows that Lockreed supplied Nuka-World with thirty-five STAR Cores, to control a large and diverse reserve of fully outfitted RobCo and General Atomics military grade robotics.
The thirty Protectrons and fifty-three turrets still bewilder 'Choly. If everything in the General's terminal entries is accurate, the Lane had to determine the source of the earliest true AEGIS malfunction, restore it, and continue fully and knowingly protected. When had the first electromagnetic nor'easter ravaged the East Coast, and put this AEGIS system to the test? Yet, even if these AEGIS bugs do get repaired, he can appreciate how the biological effects of such a storm precipitate such entrenched local superstitions.
Any science Sutter Grove commands is likely reverse engineered at best. He's neither a programmer nor an engineer, and can't do much more than augment their knowledge base going forward. Have the Lane's inhabitants ever truly known why or how the building protects them? He's not confident he can adequately explain to the Lane exactly what such things represent, but he knows with unwavering certainty that the survival of Ant Lane depends on its ability to withstand harsh magnetic weather conditions. Although at heart its inhabitants have largely reduced its architectural aegis to ghosts and shadows, Ant Lane owes its very existence to overwhelmingly advanced technological engineering.
Angel stops its cleaning routine to check on its owner.
"Chin up, Sir. It can't be all bad," the Mister Handy says. "I'm not sure I follow most of what you've just read aloud, but surely there's some kind of silver lining in it all. Some information that makes your trouble getting into this office worthwhile? Mmh?"
He glances up at Angel with an uptick of purpose.
"More of a lead lining. Or copper? Copper lining? Fuck, there's got to be hundreds of tons of copper in that place. I don't follow much of what's detailed here, either, but some of Sutter Grove's electricians might. We'll take them everything we can. Spare parts and all."
There's got to be surplus components here. STAR Cores, the redundant components of Systemized Telemetry for Automated Robot Control, routed through the architectural multi-layered cousin of the Faraday cage AEGIS, the AnEchoic Gridwork Integrated Shield.
He snaps his fingers, and swivels in his seat to push himself up with his cane. Like the one the General had used to pen her entries regarding the Academy of Liberty, this terminal is also write-protected. He'll return to it as needed, to transcribe it and transfer its data somewhere he can print out everything.
He stops and frowns. The orientation booklet. The onboarding manual. If any of the texts he's found here have indicated anything regarding the STAR Control trained specialists, STAR Cores, or AEGIS, he would know it by now. Surely he's simply overlooking something profound in plain sight.
Of course, he reminds himself, the onboarding book is just an entry level training manual. STAR Control and AEGIS must be among the most sophisticated projects this Lockreed ever worked on. Their finer workings eluded a polymath like the General for an entire summer to the point she was tracking down the masterminds behind it all.
"Maybe there's a manual here for AEGIS training," he tells himself, and commences browsing the shelves Angel has just finished dusting for the fifth time today. "Or at the very least, a layout of where they manufactured STAR Cores."
"That's the spirit! Shall I help you look?"
Getting a reply where he expected none shakes him from inside his own head just a bit. He glances up with a pleasant startled thoughtfulness.
"Yes. Thank you."
"But of course!" After a while, it comments, "It's been so delightfully quiet since we've been here in New Hampshire, you know. Just the three of us. None of those pesky voices. So much easier to focus on my housekeeping."
'Choly stops and stares off into the corner. His voice cracks.
"Angel, clarify."
"The voices? Oh, they've been bouncing around in my receiver wiring since sometime in Lowell, I'd estimate. I couldn't tell you exactly when they stopped, but I've felt haywire since long before the damage you've told me I suffered recently."
"The laser attachment." His eyes dull as his head turns to his companion. His gaze falls past it. "We removed all your attachments when we entered Ant Lane."
"So that's where it's all gone!" Angel exclaims, with the levity of mere inconvenience. "I just knew I had attachments! Oh, I pray my service is still satisfactory to you, lacking them, Mister Sir. Should I fetch them so we can reattach them, or shall we continue with the brass tacks?"
He sees red. If her tampering extends beyond having modified Angel's tendril laser, there's no other explanation in his mind than that she tried to power it on during the storm... and that she's thus responsible for Angel suffering gauss damage. He can't cry.
"Moy Angel, you're you no matter what equips you."
"And you're you, no matter your equipment." Angel's chuckle fades out in a glitched static. "Remind me again what we're here for, if you could, Sir."
A smile cracks his haunted veneer.
"Sometimes you're more human than you think."
"Not as much of a compliment as one might think."
He wipes the smile off his face, only to grin and resume searching the shelves.
"Ни фига себе..."[2288.02.15-6]
"Well! No need to curse about it."
"This whole thing. Every turn leaves me speechless. Even you." He grips a book spine. "Perhaps I misspoke. You're complex, in a way humans can be. Complex, tragic, laughable."
"I'm complex in a way machinery can be. Complicated and unpredictable."[2288.02.15-7]
"Never change."
----------------------------------------
January 5, 2288
'Choly looks up from the book to check the countdown timer on the terminal. Three minutes left. He hems and drums his pencil on the steno he's been using to track the possible ten letter passwords he's already tried.
The General must think she's General of the entire US Army, having survived all other known officers. Maybe it's as simple as some presumption that she owns the rights to anything the Army claimed. He hopes it's that simple. She doesn't strike him as the type to binge Grognak & the Ruby Ruins.
His mind drifts, and his eyes trace over the individual letters. Something clicks about the dots and crosses and natural spacing of his handwriting. It may have been nine months ago, but he still remembers just enough of the method he applied to hack Eleanor's terminal in Lexington. The markup of the encryption is one means of finding the password. He's thrown blind guesses at it all this time. It takes a bit for him to jog his memory how to coax the terminal to display that formatting, but once it spills across the screen, he needs only heed the punctuation to determine the answer. Subjectify.
[Server connection severed. Contact an Administrator if the problem persists.]
He hopes he doesn't need an uplink in order to gain access to the nametag application. At least if he does, this is an administrative terminal, so he shouldn't need to stray far from where he sits at the first floor lobby. He plucks around the terminal to get a feel for how this administrator kept his desk. The admin's daily life doesn't concern him, but his curiosity distracts him enough from his immediate task that he still takes a glance at the inbox. Even if snooping doesn't yield anything, reading the admin's various correspondences still seems interesting.
He opens messages that appear high profile, but they're vague at best. Eventually, he doubles back to a shrink of messages with a long chain of back and forth. Most of it is between the admin and the director. He skims to get the gist, and cuts to the height of the drama.
I've told you once, and I'll tell you a dozen times: don't accept his creepy gifts, and don't entertain him! It's not our problem anymore, and we're not beholden to disclose confidential documents to a civilian, no matter how much money he paid for an old SysDef property. If he breaks it by modifying it, that's his problem. He comes in again, you call security. Please take your job seriously.
---
Sir, I accept responsibility for the storm I ruffled. Know that I take my position very seriously. It's just that I figured, if he bought the property, maybe the developers would be keen on helping him? It seemed like a possible avenue to garner his continued investment in Lockreed. I won't make the same mistake again.
I hope you enjoy your vacation next week.
---
As the admin, you have access to accounting files. As the admin, you don't have the authority or credentials to make decisions based on that data.
If the board needed your input on investors, you'd be looped into board meetings.
Lockreed has concluded involvement with Taskerlands. We will no longer be doing business with him in the future, not even on prior purchases. Do not let him in the building again, or YOU will not be let in the building again. Do I make myself clear?
The thread ends here, but an asterisk indicates that a reply sits in the admin's drafts:
Sir, I know this week's misstep with Mr. Taskerlands reflects poorly on my skills, but I assure you that going forward, I will prove myself to the board. My desk may not be the brains of this company, but I am its uncanny eyes and ears, and I hear just about everything. I know better than most
'Choly wonders if the admin was cruising for a promotion or simply clawing to keep his job. He muses over the ancient office drama while he gets to work fiddling with Lt. Creeley's RFID nametag. He grabs the personnel software manual, and roots through the admin's desk for the peripheral equipment required to use it. His hand sets upon something cold and sobering.
Instead of producing the name tag cradle, he pulls from the back of the drawer a potato sized bronze paperweight. He wishes he didn't recognize the features of the metal mask. A gift tag still dangles from a thin twine around it, in a crude indelicate script: A gift from the Aldermen, to Lockreed's sharpest and brightest.
He forbids himself from reacting. He returns it to the drawer, and shuts it rigidly when he cannot shut it calmly. He has work to do.
He searches the next drawer down for the RFID cradle, and finds it. Once he plugs it in, he instructs the terminal to scan for it, then dives into the script. Maybe he's just spent an alarming amount of time in recent months immersed in programming literature, but the application is surprisingly straightforward, and reprogramming its identity data for its new owner is a breeze. He notes that the script suggests the lieutenant's name was Maria Greeley, and inspects the tag where it sits in the cradle with a skewed expression. He removes his glasses and picks at the engraved lettering with the tip of his pencil. A fleck of debris dislodges from the engraved letter, demonstrating it is in fact a G, not a C.
Because the server is inaccessible, and because he and Sticks are the only living humanoids present in the building, he can isolate the building's biometrics and indicate which of the two he wants the nametag to define as Maria Greeley.[2288.01.05-3] The RFID cradle has a deck for engraving, but he has no blanks to use to make one that says Sticks on it. He hopes the ghoul won't mind what the physical tag says, as long as its digital programming works.
If they stay much longer, he'll consider snooping around for their office supply closet to locate some. But if it works, they shouldn't have to bother.
It's going to work.
Next, he has his own name tag with him. His ease altering Greeley's tag suggests that Lockreed likely developed this personnel name tag system for all military applications, not just corporate military sites such as this. Greeley wasn't stationed at Deenwood, as far as he can tell, but the tag's similarity to his own suggests even these are about as military issue as it gets. When he loads the script contained in his tag, he must sit back and read it time and again. There's something wrong about it. He's no sophisticated programmer, but between the script he just edited on the other name tag and the script instructions in front of him in the software manual, he can clearly discern entire lines of script that set apart his name tag from the lieutenant's.
"Olivia altered it." He sits back in his chair and chews on his pencil. "When she promoted me to colonel, she didn't just edit my ribbon rack and devices: she... tampered with it."
He's nervous to alter any of the script, lest it bungle his ability to regain access to Deenwood. He sits up and rolls his eyes at himself before poising over the keyboard once again.
That's ridiculous. Why does it matter if I hypothetically ever step foot on base again, if I can't even step foot out of this building? The system won't accept an ID that looks hacked.
Before deleting any lines of script, or changing any parameters or variables, he flips to a new page in his steno and writes down the entire code. It's not that many lines, fortunately, but just like a misplaced comma or unclosed parenthesis, whatever the General added doesn't look like it belongs.
He edits the code to resemble Greeley's as closely as possible, retaining his own name, biometric signature, and credentials, and ejects his tag. Within minutes, he hears the sibilant click of pneumatic locks opening all down the halls.
He shivers.
"Why am I usually only right when that's a bad thing?"
She's been their warden all along, intentionally or otherwise. But she couldn't have known they would end up here. They're here by a fluke of getting lost in the ice Fog. She couldn't have intended that they get locked inside due to a technicality of her code meddling. And yet, with the subtlety and sleight of mind the woman commands, he can expect no better explanation.
At least she was so kind as to stock a season's worth of MREs.
Go to Next »»»
----------------------------------------
[2288.01.05-1] Lockreed of Nashua. The history of this company is based off the historical Sanders Associates. Sanders Associates started as contractor of defense technologies. One of their engineers, Ralph H. Baer, developed the first video game as a side project, for which they partnered with Magnavox to produce. Their console was the Magnavox Odyssey. Eventually Lockheed Martin bought Sanders. Currently BAE Systems owns the property.
[2288.01.05-2] The S.C.Y.T.H.E. Program is mentioned in Fallout 4. In the years leading up to the Great War, the US military contracted existing civilian manufacturing facilities to produce army resources to reduce the time and funds building new factories. There are several such companies mentioned, but the acronym's definition is yet unknown, and it's unknown the full scope of contracts belonging to the project.
[2288.01.05-3] Greeley. Maria shares a surname with the protagonist and programming specialist of The Stone Tape, Jill Greeley. They both met their demise as a consequence of their indefatigable investigations.
[2288.02.04-1] The Assaultron Helen is named after Helen of Troy. One, a major factor to the Battle of Lowell does amount to Olivia and Laverne fighting over Helen, though they both have their notions as to why she's the perfect companion. Two, Olivia first stole her by exploiting Ant Lane's security systems via a Trojan virus.
[2288.02.04-2] See's assault rifles. Olivia may have removed the robots from Ant Lane, but the mall's security and maintenance crew were tasked with the turrets' removal. Turrets in Fallout typically take 5.56 bullets. The assault rifle is See's guards' most used weapon because the bullets would exist in surplus for decades after the 2096 incident. Some higher ranking guards have firearms with converted 5.56 receivers as well for this reason.
[2288.02.15-1] Nuka-World's Galactic Zone employs STAR Control telemetry to manage the operation of military grade robotics for entertainment display. These redundant components must exist in a certain quantity within the system in order to be capable of broadcasting a strong enough frequency to secure access.
[2288.02.15-2] Robert House, the owner of RobCo and all its subsidiaries, began investing in private sectors in the years leading up to the Great War. In Fallout New Vegas, it becomes known that two such high priority ventures for him were ensuring his effective immortality through development of a stasis chamber, and the development of the Platinum Chip with its capacity to control a fleet of Securitron robots. He sought to prevent the nuclear exchange altogether, but ironically a direct nuclear hit on Las Vegas on October 23rd prevented the delivery of that command chip.
[2288.02.15-3] In the Anatomy continuity, Ant Lane was the prototype for STAR Core telemetry modules. In practice, it was proven that a majority of what made the system so costly was AEGIS itself, and that STAR Cores are functionally independent of that infrastructure. Untethered from the problem child, Lockreed would go on to effortlessly produce STAR Cores for the military through the S.C.Y.T.H.E. Program. Bradberton would later furnish a contract to procure enough to furnish the Galactic Zone.
[2288.02.15-4] John-Caleb Bradberton colluded with high ranking military, bartering for confidential technologies both with his wealth and with his own inventions. Nuka-Cola produced several confidential military products, and the partnership promised a front-facing public image which would bolster popular opinion of both the soda and the army. He managed to convince Gen. Braxton to permit his inclusion in the incredibly top secret Project Cobalt, which, in kind with House's ideologies, turned out of be another effective immortality technology.
[2288.02.15-5] Brock Taskerlands is a portmanteau of both the property owner and project manager from The Stone Tape. Although his only holdings were in Vermont granite quarries and Pheasant Lane Mall, the billionaire was not so unlike the other eccentric investors who had their individual hands in Lockreed of Nashua's various interfacing and telemetry technologies.
[2288.02.15-6] Ни фига себе. Somewhat vulgar, definitely impolite. No kidding, no frigging way, not flipping yourself off.
[2288.02.15-7] 'Choly and Angel are exchanging various quotes from Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions regarding string theory, human nature, and self-determination.
#fallout#fallout fanfic#fallout 4#sole survivor#fo4 fanfic#the anatomy of melancholy#melancholy#angel#let's have fun in new hampshire
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Yuulan’s opinion on the NRC teachers perhaps?
OC Character Opinion Ask Here
(A/N: Okay, first off, I AM TERRIBLY SORRY that I am answering this so late! But such is what happens when I end up working extra weekend shifts last minute. I must learn to pace myself better but we will return to our regularly scheduled programing promptly tomorrow!)
Trein
Yuulan really likes Professor Trein and greatly respects him. With her lack of magic in this world, his class is one of the few she can fully excel in without Grim’s assistance and her ability in Trein’s class often makes up for Grim’s shortcomings. She considers him a firm but fair teacher.
Crewel
On the otherhand, Yuulan is slightly terrified of Professor Crewel. She respects him but she tries not to stand out in his class since she considers him, in some ways, harsher than Trein. Though she must admit, he is never faltering in the style department and if she wasn’t so scared of attracting his negative notice, she would pay more attention to the things he wears.
Vargas
P.E. is another class Yuulan can more or less get around with her own skills outside of flight so she doesn’t mind Vargas much. He’s another teacher that she personally likes, though she secretly wonders if he have any intellect behind all those muscles.
✨BONUS✨
Sam
Yuulan is actually quite impressed with Sam and how many things he can fit in his shop, and how various his wares tend to be. Nearly anything she’s needed she’s been able to find through him to the point she doesn’t need to leave campus for anything. They also have a good rapport and he often offers her discounts since he’s aware that Crowley if often inconsistent with his provisions for her.
Crowley
Believe it or not, Yuulan kinda liked Crowley AT FIRST. As her initial only real guide in Twisted Wonderland and well aware he could have just left her out in the cold, he held a lot of influence over her and she liked his aesthetic. That did not last long, especially when it became clear that her friends were doing far more for her wellbeing than the oh-so “kind and generous” bird man.
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Welcome to...
The following is brought to you by...
Static
"Apricus City! Don't bother trying to change the channel, I'm on every station baby..."
"Hello hello all you lovely people out there! Don't you worry, I won't take up to much of your precious time..but trust me..you're gonna want to hear what I have to say."
"I know everyone is excited about the Olympus Tournament, that's all well and good but I'm here to talk about another kind of entertainment."
"Remember that little news blip about a hot new nightclub coming soon? Well we're not coming soon baby, we're already here. You just have to find us!"
The camera pans around several different buildings in the Diamond District.
"After all, what's the point of a reward if you don't do anything to earn it. Follow some clues, know the right people, pay the right amount, I'm sure there are plenty of ways to point you in the right direction..and you definitely want to find your way here."
The camera shows the inside of an enormous club. An incredibly well stocked bar, a huge high tech dance floor, a DJ booth, a live music stage, several booths, and multiple other things.
Tech demos are shown off with pyro erupting, people swinging on hoops dangling from the ceiling, and bartenders performing some rather impressive tricks.
"Do I have your attention now? I haven't even mentioned everything available to our patrons. You'll have to find your way here to see everything for yourself."
"The right people already know, but do you know the right people?"
"The Bacchanalia is waiting for you.."
We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.
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So it's been one helluva month.
And it's not even over.
It's not been one helluva month only because of Kimmer's aunt Jacquie's fall at the end of last month that necessitated hip surgery after which Jacquie recovered some cognitive ability but her body in general was worse off to the point where she was transferred to hospice which is where Kimmer's right now managing Jacquie's care, being at her side every day and, like the rest of us...
Waiting.
It hasn't been one helluva month because of that, though. In fact, if the month was only about that it would've been a relatively manageable month.
What makes it the month that it is... is because that part of our lives was dropped wholesale into our show in progress. We just returned from our anniversary vacation in Orlando when, a few days later, Kimmer was on a plane to southern California ahead of Jacquie's hip surgery.
Now, the plan was to make sure Jacquie's pre- and post-op care was handled. The plan was to return her to her memory care home where she would successfully recover from surgery. The plan was for Kimmer to return home probably late the next week.
At this point, Kimmer's been there a month and a few days. Linzy went down for a few days a coupla weeks ago. I went down last week because Jacquie's health is like domino's falling and the broken hip was perhaps the second domino of something that was already ongoing.
All of that, by the way, is manageable on its own. Of course I doubt that anyone's life is composed of a single thing and ours is no different. Kimmer's, especially, is no different.
You see, when she got on the plane at the end of September, she took her show on the road. Her scheduled clients basically went down to southern California with her where she sees them online.
All her charting?
Done down there.
And then her doctoral program?
Yeah. She actually attended a coupla online classes during our vacation. We'd stop back at our room and she'd attend class for an hour.
Well, that program was just getting started and, very quickly, there were papers, quizzes, blogs, tests, formatting, reading, office hours, advisor meetings, dissertation prep, and so on. And the more time passes, the deeper into the obligations of the doctoral program she gets.
This is what I mean by one helluva month. Because aside from the doctoral work, the charting, and the clients, managing Jacquie's care has been a moving target. There are lots of pieces to it, not the least of which is Jacquie's ever-evolving condition and the family's plans on how to deal with the Now and the Future.
🤨
Now. Back at home, Linzy was keeping busy on top of her last-minute, whirlwind trip down and back from southern California.
Linzy's day job's at Off The Wall School of Music where she regularly and individually teaches a pretty all-ages group of students. She also does admin work and a bit of painting and finds herself enjoying not only the staff there but each of the students as well, both piano and vocal.
I think the age spread is something like 5 to 40. So there's never a dull moment and always a sense of adventure. 😊
Linzy's night job this month included performing at The Cottage in Bothell and Willows Lodge in Woodinville (actually the Willows gig is this Friday night). As well, she played another high-energy, next-level visual and sound production gig with Midnight High at Tim's Tavern in White Center. Lot of plans happening around Midnight High, by the way. The Future seems to be lining up for this band.
A little plot twist in the month: a pair of wisdom teeth in need of making an exit.
So that happened. 😬
Best thing, though?
I got a preview of the full album Linzy's gonna release under her Dream Patrol banner. It's a rough production draft of each of the songs she intends for the album... with a couple of the songs not yet painted with her Dream Patrol brush.
Many of the songs aren't complete. Some are. Every song, though, is on its feet. The Dream Patrol-ness of her work is definitely coming through. It's definitely another level or two up from her recently released EP, Made For TV, which features older songs.
These new songs, though, are in the process of making her first album an incredible stand-out piece of work. Especially as her Dream Patrol aesthetic allows her to be more cinematic, leaning into the emotions of her songs in a way that's not typically done.
And the live Dream Patrol show? What's it gonna look like?
Hand to God, it's fun just talking to her about it.
So that all happened this month, too.
😁
As I said, I went to visit Jacquie last week for a few days, just like Linzy did.
My October's yeah. It's a number of different post-production jobs done on location and at home. The glaring omission from this month is that The Combat Wombats didn't participate in this year's 48-Hour Horror Film Project.
Kinda bummed about that. 😕
For me, the most striking thing about October's that Kimmer 'n I haven't been apart for this long since we were first married and she went to Atlanta, Georgia, to attend Emory University's Wound, Ostomy, Continence program.
We were talking about it the other day and agreed that it's much easier to do what we're doing now with all the technology at our disposal. Cell phones especially, any time of day and night which makes coordinating everything we've gotta coordinate so much easier. We can share our mornings and evenings wherever we happen to be in those moments, say goodnight right before we go to bed. And so on.
Back in the day, we each had to be right there at a landline, a telephone wired into the wall of our condo. It was definitely not as convenient and inflexible as hell.
We did it, of course. Just as we managed my production trips to Europe through Internet Cafes and email.
We worked with whatever we had and thank God that's all changed for the much, much better.
☺️
October wasn't super about Halloween this year.
It couldn't be. It can't be.
It was a month about Jacquie and logistics and family and sharing this experience and waiting.
I just didn't wanna forget the other stuff.
🙂
#halloween#family#hospice#the last mile#music#gigs#sound production#live production#music school#dream patrol#album work#music production#songwriting#love#teamwork#collaboration#friendship#laughter
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Okay rant time! 🤣
I cannot begin to tell you how very much the name of this place bugs me! 🤬 😡😠😤
Now I know nothing about this company or it's history, there maybe a very good reason it's named as it is. However...
The sight of this sign never fails to makes me flinch! (Honestly, I'm developing a twich 🤦🏼♀️)
You can't have an '&' without a word either side! I'm sorry, but you just can't! (So says I)
WHAT & kith???!
Did the rest of the sign fall off at some point?!
Rant over, we now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
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Metal Dreams
Sequel to “The Metal Butterfly,” available in the March archives of this fine blog. This is a special feature, and we will return to our regularly scheduled programming next week.
Two lost souls who can’t go home share a correspondence.
Medic,
You said to write to you when I arrived safely at New Pergamus University Hospital. This has transpired. The ship-to-surface shuttle dropped me off last night, and I spent most of the evening being examined by Dr. Solano and her team.
People seem more forgiving of each other here. On the transport yesterday, two men argued, and I thought it would come to blows. Instead, they both burst out laughing. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a single public altercation since leaving the Imperium.
I’m treated better as well. This morning, the nurse told me jokes while she set up my S-33 infusion. Back on the warship, the only person who treated me like anything other than an experiment or a freak was Sergeant Tillery.
Dr. Solano seems to know her trade. She said my recovery would take some time, and she would need to replace some of Dr. Gatwin’s experimental cybernetics with standard models. She is kind, but the thought of more surgeries has me anxious.
Thank you for finding me this place. I think I will be alright here for a while.
If you’re not too busy, I’d love to know what is happening on the Monarch. Has anything exciting happened? How are Mr. Constanzakis and Corporal Flynn? And you, of course. I hope you’re well.
How do you sign letters in the Alliance? Back on Caldros, we’d use yours in Glory, but I doubt that’s appropriate here.
Orren
Orren,
I’m glad to hear you’ve arrived safely. I admit, I found NPUH because Dr. Solano was the co-author of the cybernetics text I used when you were in the Monarch’s sickbay. It’s good to hear that she’s just as competent in person.
Mechanic Constanzakis, last I heard of him, is bored and trying to optimize the flashlight. Corporal Flynn reports all systems nominal. They are currently sitting on an empty cot and cleaning their rifle.
We did have some excitement recently. Are you familiar with altitude sickness? Last week, I had several patients come in with what turned out to be altitude sickness. After putting lots of steroids in everybody, I made a very pointed call to environmental control.
Turns out a couple of clowns decided to overclock the system processor, which predictably caused it to fail. The backups kicked in with a few hiccups, like a hazardous drop in oxygen and pressure. Everybody is very pissed off.
It was a little nostalgic, though. I haven’t seen a case of altitude sickness since I worked with the Rescue Service back home. We’d get a couple tourists a year who went up the mountains too fast.
I hear you about being nervous about more surgeries. I wish I had something comforting to say, but I’m not very good at overcoming fears myself. All I can do is wish you luck.
(There are lots of ways to sign a letter. Basically, you want to end with whatever sentiment you want to leave your recipient with.)
Best of luck,
Medic
Medic,
Thank you for the new information. I don’t think I realized this until I left, but in the Imperium, almost every pleasantry exchanged between citizens contains the word glory. For instance, the most patriotic way to say hello is Glory to and then the name of the place you live. Glory to Caldros, my name is Orren.
Of course, it wasn’t Orren back then. I took the name from a comic book series I loved as a boy. Orren Beck is the scientist who gives Hero Gloriorum the technology he needs to fight insurgents. Looking back, it’s all blatant propaganda, but it was also my favorite comic in happier times.
You’ll be pleased to know that your follicle-stimulating treatments are still working, and my hair is nearly the length of my shoulders. One of the nurses, Mauro, showed me how to braid it.
You and Corporal Flynn told me to think about what I want. Sergeant Tillery has been on my mind lately, and I want to send a letter to her family.
When an Imperial soldier is killed in battle, their family only receives a computer-generated letter saying they died for the glory of the Imperium. I think her family deserves more than that.
Unfortunately, I don’t know much about her, just that she was from the Outer Arm, and won several marksmanship awards. I can’t access Imperial servers from here. Can you still access the personnel records on the warship she served on?
She was an extraordinary woman. It would mean a lot if I could tell her family that.
Thank you,
Orren
Orren,
I had to ask a few favors, but here’s what I found:
The only Tillery serving on the warship Fearsome was a Sergeant Megan Tillery from Slacov, Mispronac. She’d been in the service ten years, and received the Imperial Star for exemplary service in the battle at Barnard’s. There were three marksmanship awards in her file.
Next of kin is listed as Burr Tillery, husband, living in Slacov Province. I’ve attached the full contact information.
Your friend,
Medic
Medic,
Thank you for this. It took me almost a week to decide what to write. How would Mr. Tillery react to receiving a letter from a lab experiment? In the end, I introduced myself as someone who’d served with his wife, and told him how brave and kind she was. I said, very truthfully, that she is missed.
In other news, I finally got my spinal processors removed. Dr. Solano told me that spinal surgery can cause significant pain, but I am in less pain now than before. Tomorrow, they’re going to replace my right arm, which has been useless due to the infection at the shoulder graft.
Yesterday, Mauro took me to a café on the hospital’s ground floor. I told him I only need the odd infusion of nutrient broth, but he insisted on showing off his city’s specialty pastries. I ate a fruit muffin and a benetta.
Medic, it’s the first food I’ve eaten since I left Caldros. I had almost forgotten the joy of sugar and oil and crumbs. Of course, it doesn’t compare to the roasted onion breads from Caldros, but I suppose I’ll have to get used to Pergaman food while I’m here.
It wasn’t always a happy place, but I miss little things about home, like the food. Yesterday, Mauro said I can go home after they’ve finished fixing my cybernetics, but he doesn’t know about my origins. The Imperium considers me a casualty of the battle at Harah, and if I were to go back now, I’d be arrested as a defector.
Your friend,
Orren
Orren,
All I can say is I know the feeling. Sometimes home is a past tense word. Mostly I try not to think about it. Corporal Flynn says it helps to talk it out, and I guess that’s what we’re doing.
So, news aboard the Monarch: I have a horrible hacking asthma cough, and someone has been diverting narcotics.
I keep the Good Stuff in a safe behind a fingerprint lock. This week, I did a spot check, and I was short. The perpetrator didn’t even bother to follow long-standing medical tradition and replace the drugs with saline; they just took the vials.
I have a pretty good idea of who it is. I am not looking forward to the conversation we’re going to have.
The asthma cough is treatable, at least. I mixed myself up a gourmet nebulizer of steroids, racemic epi, and beta-2 agonists and am self-administering it as I write. Corporal Flynn is watching me disapprovingly from their spot by the doors, but they don’t have a belt around their lungs or a cough that tastes like old coins.
How did the arm surgery go? And I want to hear about all your favorite foods.
All my best,
Medic
Medic,
The arm surgery went “smoothly,” according to Dr. Solano. I’ll need a lot of physical therapy to learn how to use the new arm, though—my brain needs to learn the new connections. As before, there was far less pain than I’m accustomed to.
Since I can’t use both hands to type, I’ve been connecting to the computer with a hardline and writing these letters with my brain. It’s faster than typing anyway, and since my spinal processors were removed, interfacing with a computer is much smoother.
A few days ago, Mauro walked in on me while I still had the cable running from my temple to the computer console. He left the room in a hurry. Now, when I ask if we can go to the café again, he’s busy.
So there are no more favorite foods to report so far. I have discovered another passion, which is reading. Most books that aren’t boring as water or oozing with patriotism are banned in the Imperium. Here, the Pergaman Public Library has a dizzying variety of books. I’m having real trouble choosing. What are your favorite books?
Hoping your cough gets better soon,
Orren
Orren,
Unfortunately, I am typing this while propped up in bed in the sickbay of the Libertad, the larger ship in our task group. It turns out that what I thought was asthma exacerbation is actually pneumonia. Corporal Flynn had to call Dr. Wick after I coughed myself into a minor syncopal episode.
This is all backward. I treat patients; I do not receive treatment unless it’s from myself. Lucan, the head medic here, is relishing the opportunity to flex his critical care skills. I am covered in monitoring equipment, and he’s got me on bacteriophage infusions. It’s excessive.
At least this means I don’t have to talk to the narcotics culprit yet.
You can still get food even if that nurse won’t go to the café with you. If you’re not comfortable going by yourself, most hospital cafés will deliver food upstairs. There should be a computer menu to place your order.
Let’s see, books. I haven’t had much time to read lately, but I remember enjoying Gone-away Station, which is a mystery thriller about a space station that’s only there sometimes. Oh, and Murder on the Orient Express, a homeworld classic. Make sure you get the Sovan translation; all the others are impossible to get through. Bearing Witness is a memoir by Soraya Varden, who spent forty years as a medic with the Rescue Service in Mattarin, Kumitan. It was one of the things that inspired me to become a medic.
I asked Corporal Flynn, and they recommend Down in the Valley, which is historical nonfiction about the Cruciad civil war.
All my best,
Medic
Medic,
You were right about the café offering delivery. I have decided that I like croissants, both plain and with filling.
This week, Dr. Solano replaced my other arm and, at my request, switched my experimental bioplastic medication port out for a more standard one. It’s a small change, but I feel more like myself. Like my body is my own again. I know that probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you.
It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, either. Percentage-wise, I’m more tech than human. My brain, where the soul, the “butterfly,” supposedly lives, is also significantly enhanced by tech.
I’ll never be the boy I was. That body and mind are gone. I don’t even go by his name anymore. I’m also not Twelve, the lab experiment. I’m Orren, but who or what is Orren?
I wish I could sleep, at least. Since I stopped sleeping, there have been an awful lot of hours to fill.
Your book recommendations helped fill those hours. I started reading with my eyes, but I feel more comfortable reading via hardline connection. It’s smooth and seamless, like taking a bath in words.
You can tell Corporal Flynn that I particularly enjoyed their book on the Cruciad civil war. It didn’t pull any punches.
Wishing you better health soon,
Orren
Orren,
Thanks for the letter. It always cheers me up to hear from you. I am feeling better now. Being ill is boring, and I’ve decided not to do it anymore.
The downside is that I couldn’t delay confronting the narcotics thief anymore. It was awful. He didn’t even deny it. He just sat down on a cot and started crying. I didn’t know what to say. The poor guy left on a troop transport yesterday.
The worst part is that I knew he was struggling and tried to help. It wasn’t enough. I feel like it’s partly my fault for not doing more.
Well, we have something in common now because I can’t sleep either. I keep thinking about my patient, and then about all the other patients I’ve failed, and, well, that spirals pretty fast. And none of the safe sleep meds work anymore.
Sometimes I go for walks around the ship at night. It was a little scary at first—usually, Corporal Flynn escorts me everywhere, and it felt strange to be alone. I’m used to it now. I go to the obs deck with the enormous windows and stare at the stars for hours.
Have you ever done that? Just lost yourself in the galactic soup?
The first time I was in space, I was on a surface-ship shuttle on my way to an assignment with an asteroid mining company. When he heard it was my first time off planet, the man next to me insisted on switching places so I could have the window seat. Kumitan from orbit is a treat, he said.
I stared out that porthole and broke down sobbing. It’s hard to explain. I could see the Cappadine Valley where I grew up, this dimple of light green ringed by snowcapped mountains. It was so small and perfect. Suddenly I realized that everyone I knew was down in that little green dish while I was up in the ionosphere, so unimaginably far away.
Humanity fought for centuries to leave our homeworld and live in space. At that moment, all I wanted to do was somehow slide through that window and land on the shade porch outside my grandparents’ house.
I know all about the observer effect et cetera now, but I think a part of me knew that I was never going home again.
Sorry to be so maudlin. It’s been a maudlin couple of weeks.
Maudlinly yours,
Medic
Medic,
Thank you for your letter. I hope my reply finds you in better spirits. And I never want you to be sorry for writing maudlin things to me. Like you told me once, it’s better to talk it out, and I get the impression you don’t have any confidants on your ship.
I had a similar experience on the transport leaving Caldros. It wasn’t as intense as yours, but I recall the same sense of grief as I watched the shining torus station get smaller and smaller behind us. Maybe I also knew that I was never going home.
I had optic replacements last week. They’re still healing, so I’m feeling my way around the walls until the tech can be switched on. The good news is that I did get to pick the color. They’re dark brown, like my old human eyes.
But the more human I look, the less human I feel. I spend more time talking to the hospital’s mainframe than to other people. When I write to you, it’s with a hardline or a wireless connection to the terminal. I spend hours sifting through cyberspace, looking at hundreds of pictures and video clips and articles every minute.
Like you and Corporal Flynn said, cybernetics are not rare here. Dr. Solano herself had a cardiac replacement at a young age because of a congenital defect in her organic heart. But someone with a cybernetic heart isn’t the same as someone like me who can store memories on a hard drive and read a dozen articles simultaneously.
What makes a person? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll find out here. But where else can I go? My asylum petition is still pending, so I only have a temporary ID. I could find a job, but where? Most Pergamans are still in school at my age, so should I apply to school?
These are all human things. I think I am not human.
Human or not, the question of the future weighs heavily on me. Dr. Solano says I only need one more surgery, and then she can see me as an outpatient. After that, I’ll need to make some decisions. I can count on one cybernetic hand the number of decisions I’ve made in my life, and they’ve all been minor.
How did you decide what you wanted to do in life?
Maudlinly yours as well,
Orren
Orren,
Sorry about the long turnaround. Corporal Flynn and I had a bit of a close call recently, and we’re both shaken up. I can’t say more than that–military secrets.
I think I decided I wanted to be a medic in primary school. Biology was my favorite subject, and I loved our community first aid courses. Medicine just felt right. I don’t know how much help that will be.
As for the question of your humanity, I think it’s entirely up to you. If you see yourself as human, then you are. If you see yourself as, well, something else, then you’re something else.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about identity as well.
I’m not the girl who left Kumitan and cried on the shuttle. I don’t go by her name, either. I don’t go by any name.
At some point, I picked a new name for myself, or maybe some ancient god of medicine picked it for me. I’m a little fuzzy on how that works. I don’t know how long it’s been my name, and I haven’t told anybody.
It feels inappropriate, even. Sometimes I feel like someone took the person out of me with surgical tools, and only the medic is left.
On a brighter note, Dr. Wick asked me to help her write a paper. We’re going through all our combined chart data and doing a retrospective study on the effect of different pain relief methods on trauma patient outcomes.
She’s got this hypothesis about nociblockers, but it’s too early to tell.
Which brings me back to names: if she wants to put my name on the paper, what will I say? Maybe she can put Dr. Carolyn Wick et al.
Your friend,
Medic
Medic,
Tell the good doctor your name, if only so you can receive credit for your contributions to her paper. I want to read it when it comes out, too. My favorite things to read are thriller novels, but I would enjoy a medical paper if it was yours.
I had my last surgery two days ago. The last of the pain is gone. Tomorrow, I’m getting a medication pump so I won’t need to take S-33 infusions anymore.
My strength and agility are the best they’ve ever been. I’ve been pretending to be weaker than I am so I don’t scare the poor physical therapy assistant. At night, I test myself by running through the halls or lifting furniture with one arm. I’m limited by the need to be quiet. I wonder what I can really do.
Yesterday, I was wandering through cyberspace, looking for information on human sleep patterns. Not needing to sleep is useful, but I’d like to dream sometimes. I reached out through the lines of code and data, and the strangest thing happened. Someone reached back.
They didn’t have a net tag or a routing signature, or any of the information I normally see when I encounter another user. They simply handed me a file packet and disappeared. I ran the file in safe mode. It was a piece of code written for neural tech. My safe mode trial found no viruses, so I ran it on myself last night.
I had the most incredible dreams.
Whoever that cyberghost was, I need to find them again.
Your friend,
Orren
P.S. I’d like to know your name if you’re willing to give it.
Orren,
Your cyberghost has me interested. How did they know how to write code compatible with your neural tech when no one else has tech like yours? No one else that we know of.
Thanks for your advice on the name thing. I have this tendency to spend too much time inside my own head until everything gets kind of monstrous and warped.
Dr. Wick and I are still going over the data, but when she’s ready to publish, I’ll give her my name if she asks.
I’m worried about our mutual friend the coropral. They’re sitting on an empty cot right now, taking apart their sidearm and putting it back together again. Admittedly, I know nothing about guns, but I know you don’t need to clean them fifteen times in a row. The corporal’s had a hard couple of weeks.
This morning before PT, I asked if they wanted to talk about anything. They just said something about being a soldier. It’s ironic because they’re the one who told me that it helps to talk it out.
I just want this stupid war to be over! I want Corporal Flynn and all the soldiers to go home. I want the prisoners rotting in camps on desolate moons to go home. I want homes to stop being destroyed. Homes and people.
What would I do after the war? I never thought about it before. Almost three years in non-stop crisis mode has killed my ability to think past the next critical patient. I’d practice medicine, I suppose. Like I said, it’s what I’ve wanted since primary school. I’m living out my childhood dreams, albeit in a twisted, ironic way.
Not that I mind. Medicine is a merciful trade, and someone, somewhere, always needs us.
Wishing you good dreams from across the void.
Your friend,
Mercy
Mercy,
I want you to know you’ve been a valuable friend to me these past few months. Every time I get a letter from you, it makes my whole day a little happier.
Mercy, my friend, I didn’t choose this for myself. My whole life, I’ve hardly chosen anything for myself at all. But that’s all about to change.
Today’s the day I leave New Pergamus University Hospital. I found my cyberghost, Mercy. Or rather, they found me. They gave me another file packet. It was a series of photos. Photos of people like me, with bodies and brains full of tech, none of it disguised in any way. They all looked content and comfortable with themselves. At the end of the file was a location. It’s far away, far from the Alliance and the Imperium.
That’s where I’m going. I have enough medication to last me almost a year, a lunchbox of croissants, and my temporary ID. Getting there will be difficult, but I’m built for long journeys. I never tire. I need minimal nutrients and water. I can talk computers into doing what I want them to do. I don’t need to sleep, though I can dream when I want to. It may take me a long time, but I will find the others who are like me. And maybe I’ll find myself along the way.
This is probably the last you’ll hear from me for a while. Where I’m going, it’s hard to get messages out, but I’ll try my best. Good luck with your medicine, and with your life. When I first met you, I met Medic. Thank you for letting me get to know Mercy as well.
Your friend, no matter how far away,
Orren.
———
If you’ve read to the end, please like/reply so that I know you’re out there in the void.
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i feel sorry for the weirdly large following i’ve accumulated in that i went from orderly hyper fixation blogging to 2012 chaos flashback shitposting and haven’t stopped yet
#supernatural#destiel#lmao#sorry gang but i'm enjoying this pure wild ride of batshit#we will return to our regularly scheduled programming at some point#but fucked if i know when#jask rambles
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