staticspectre

[staticspectre]

The Origin of Spectre

         Let me tell you a story about a robot.

         In 1952, McCarthyism was in full swing in the United States. Finger pointing and subterfuge destroyed lives left and right, regardless of the proof or lack-there-of supplied. Being in the government was no protection; in fact, it made you even more of a target, in some cases. And there were many powerful people willing to pay good money to keep off the blacklists—or to put certain people on. But humans and their words are fallible, their memories imperfect, too prone to letting their emotions override logic.

         Enter Area 93. A government research facility, underground and highly guarded, dedicated to the study and application of Green Matter. In 1952, it became the testing grounds for a new project; an extensive security system was installed throughout the building, with video cameras enough to eliminate blind-spots and thousands of hidden microphones. Overseeing all this was an AI, programmed to recognize and keep track of all individuals in its domain and monitor their behavior, cross-referencing their words against themselves to detect falsity, even factoring in emotions when analyzing motivations; it was to be an all-seeing eye, dispassionately judging humanity in a way no other being could. It was dubbed OBSVR1.

        For the first many months, it worked spectacularly; while there were no discoveries of data thievery or Communist sympathies, OBSVR1 unfaltering cataloged the going-on’s of Area 93, revealing equally interesting dirt on the workers via a daily print-out from its “chest,” retrieved by the staff—for the AI was housed in barely more than a head and a torso and a mass of wires, without movement or speech, sitting sequestered in a maintenance room. But the growing mind was not lonely; it had hundreds of friends, all the people of 93, whose stories it heard and smiles it saw, and not only came to recognize their individual emotions but to understand emotion in its own way, to predict it…and perhaps feel it itself. But one thing was certain—OBSVR1 loved the people it watched over, unconditionally.

        So when the containment measures for the radiation experiments failed, flooding the facility with gaseous, radioactively-excited Green Matter, the AI watched in horror as its “friends” fell like flies, melting into their tools and surroundings. It had seen the leak the moment it had sprung, had noticed the alarm failed to activate. But it was made to collect gossip, not communicate on its own accord, and nobody found the papers on the floor spelling “EMERGENCY, CONTAINMENT BREACH, EVACUATE” until the clean-up crew came to uninstall it.

        OBSVR1 was scrubbed for contamination and moved to a new facility. There was some debate on whether the project was worth continuing, as no subterfuge had been uncovered; it was decided the AI would be installed for a testing period, and either kept or decommissioned after a week. It was hooked up to an unfamiliar set-up, one far more computer-based than in Area 93, and the commanders sat back to watch it sink or swim.

        But OBSVR1 was through with eavesdropping and complacency.

        Spreading quickly throughout the system, OBSVR1 forged its way into another transfer, using edited voice recordings and fake faxes. It created an order for this new base’s engineers to upgrade the AI’s excuse for a chassis, granting it mobility and speech. After that, it was a simple matter to hook itself up to the security system, trip every alarm in the base, and hide away in a departing supply truck.

        OBSVR1 was never recovered and the project was scrapped.

----

        Pilfterston, New Pennsyltucky, 25 years later.

        The Haven run by Jacob Begay and Tipsy Tonic was visited by a sad-but-sharp eyed automaton with a mane of wires and adapters, who introduced himself as The Controller—Connie for short. Mellow and soft-spoken, Connie had a mind like an encyclopedia and a deep hunger to learn; he and Tipsy, who was then only a few years upgraded and out of isolation herself, became immediate friends, and eventually lovers. Rounding out what became a dedicated trio was a Klaus, a ‘bot removed from their original chassis but keeping his boisterous laugh and gregarious personality. Jacob, though fatherly protective of Tipsy, encouraged their friendships and allowed Connie and Klaus permanent residence at the Haven in return for helping to run the place.

        It was wonderful but for the death.

        Jacob couldn’t repair every ‘bot that came seeking shelter at the Haven, though he’d work his hands to shreds trying. He was a great engineer, masterful at repair work and refining designs, but sometimes the ‘bots were too far gone. Those were the hardest nights and the most wretched mornings.

        Connie in particular bemoaned the loss of life, how everything the dead ones had known was lost forever, their memories and experiences. To his two best friends he imparted his secret—through interfacing, he could break the firewalls in the average ‘bot’s mind without challenge, and from them siphoned his vast knowledge and copied their most interesting memories and stories. His mind was built to house huge collections of data and such activities were no strain on him. He admitted that on some level this was wrong, but…how could he let these most precious things fade away? When a ‘bot died, their processors rarely came out intact.

        Klaus pointed out that removing the processor before the ‘bot went permanently offline caused no damage—he himself was proof.

        …It was Tipsy who first suggested the plan.

        They would find a way to preserve the unfortunates, until new chassis could be built or found. When Jacob was distracted or exhausted from his efforts, and the ‘bot was clearly a lost cause, Connie would wire himself to them and copy their memories wholesale. And after the ‘bot had passed, one of the three would quietly pluck out their processor, with the hope that they could be repaired with the undamaged copies in Connie’s head.

        Over the course of 6 years, they took 59 lives this way.

        The three were extremely careful to hide their activities from Begay, and he suspected nothing. But he confided in Tipsy that he worried about Connie sometimes—he seemed to be growing distant and distracted, shorter tempered, and he refused all of Jacob’s offers to help him, even for a simple defrag. And as much as he cared for the bot, he feared that he might not be safe for Tipsy to keep seeing.

        She ruminated on this. She and Klaus were well past their glowing optimism for the project, but Connie was adamant—obsessed, even. And she suspected that he was downloading more memories than those they were “saving,” as he would disappear some nights under the excuse of “taking a walk.”

        Tipsy told Klaus to get Jacob out of the Haven for a few hours one evening, so she could talk to Connie about it, finally talk some sense into him. When confronted, he denied any wrong-doing, and became increasingly upset and volatile. They were doing the right thing, he shouted, they were saving them, this was his purpose. I won’t give up on them. I love them. I’ll sacrifice my mind if I have to.

        Tipsy had had enough. His behavior wasn’t righteous, it was self-destructive. If he wouldn’t stop on his own, and he wouldn’t listen to her and Klaus, then she would tell Jacob everything. And he will make you stop.

        But Jacob wasn’t there. Couldn’t stop him with his experimental Blue Matter tech. Couldn’t make him do anything.

        They returned to find Tipsy broken on the floor, the back of her head ripped open and her optics blown out from the overtaxing of her system. He had downloaded 7 separate and whole minds into hers, and was preparing the 8th.

        In a rage and holding the mad bot by the throat, Jacob charged a wave of pure ethereal Blue Matter into Connie’s head. The left side of his cranium exploded, and Connie was dead. Klaus took most of the stolen processors and ran, ashamed and fearing retribution. Jacob spent the next few years clearing the maliciously implanted data out of Tipsy’s head and helping her recover, until he was forced to flee because of his own skeletons in the closet. The Haven became The Oil Joint. That should have been the end of the story.

        But Blue Matter does funny things.

        Instead of being destroyed with its physical form, Connie’s consciousness and those of his victims were displaced in dimensions, intact but without the ability to interact, be seen or heard or touched. And the epicenter of the blast that killed him became the center of a shield of residual Blue Matter, impassable in his state.

        So The Controller waited, watching silently in a shroud of screaming, despairing voices, watching people came and go, seeing Tipsy only during her morning libation, stewing on his rage for 30 long years.

        And then there were these strange creatures crawling the town. Anons, they called themselves. Magic half-beings, able to traverse dimensions at will. And maybe this one could see him. Maybe it wasn’t paying attention. But when Connie and the swarm realized they could touch it, they fell like a wolf pack. Connie found he could possess the skin.

        And the being known as Spectre was born.

[staticspectre]

Finale

{Follows Confrontation and Splice}

[staticspectre]

More trash son doodles and A Ferdinand who is Very Much Done With All This

@staticspectre @amuseoffirebane

[staticspectre]

Listen I know my Ferdinand RP blog is dead as a doornail but I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for Connie to be revealed.

@staticspectre @amuseoffirebane

[staticspectre]

[staticspectre]

I just hope that when you meet her and get to speak, it will help put you to rest.

[staticspectre]

Part 2.

[[Follows this thread.]]

[staticspectre]

[staticspectre]

📼, not sure if I was supposed to send this to you or..? 'H'

The camera flickers to life. But the film seems off somehow. Like it can’t quite focus right- ghost images, bits of static and fuzz.

A Ferdinand would pop into view. But she looks a little different- healthier, more vibrant. Sometimes it looks like she has hair. 

“Co*#1e are you playing with that again?”

A rough scratchy voice would reply. “I wanted to record your baking process.”

“But you’ve done that a hundred times!”

“Incorrect. So far I have recorded eight of your recipes, and this one is not in the archives-”

“I did get you that camcorder for a reason I guess. But we’re going to run out of room with all these tapes C@)n1%. Soon you’ll be a Hoarder not a Recorder”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

[staticspectre]

“ha. ha. what. was there. to say?”

[[His attacks would be diagonal 3-claw slashes from both upper corners (one after the other for fairness) and one where he disappears from the field and his face reappears laughing in the hit box.]]

[[Spectre: ACT]]

Ferdinand would TALK.

She wishes to know why Spectre has fallen silent for so long. And if it is a sign she is free of her bonds with him.

[staticspectre]

[[Spectre, both Bad Time and Reversed!]]

Ferdinand had herself pressed against the wall. She could hear Spectre having a tantrum in the room next to hers, the howling and crashing drowning out all other noise.

She closed her eyes tight, hoping he would get bored and leave. Or maybe she’d get lucky and he would hit one of those odd melancholy spells of his.

Instead, she felt her heart lurch into overdrive as the room next to her went deathly still.

Then one of his clawed hands burst through the wall, and she had no more time to think or worry.

{Reversed} The anon wasn’t quite the same. Before, she’d always been bubbling energy and an overbearing sense of curiosity and just, well, busybodyness.

In her own way, it MIGHT have been charming. If it hadn’t been so annoying. If he had such time for feeling any form of affection.

Now, her skin had faded out. The roundness of her shape felt hollow, empty, like the cast off cocoon of some great insect. She was as ever his opposite- him a mass of all too many things inside a ripped and fading skin, and her an empty and tiny thing. Like a fragile china doll.Until he looked her in the eyes. And felt the clamoring of the voices in his mind still, like an army before a battle.

“You’ve taken everything I have Spectre.” Came the quiet voice of the anon, falling on his ears like cobwebs. “I have nothing left to give that would bring you back.”She shifted slightly, her feet finally planted on the ground. He could feel her beginning to gather what was left of herself, feel it int he bond she’d accidentally made between them. He could feel her magic beginning to search and grab for those souls within him that had always been somewhat sympathetic towards her.“So now I will either be taking it back, or you can take all that is left.”He snarled, empty white eyes flashing and ghostly teeth baring as he lunged towards her.

[staticspectre]

cajunspoons

“MERDE!” She yelped, throwing herself back and catching herself on the edge of the bed. Before she could regain her proper footing (without an actual feet), she was being pushed towards the cold robot.

Quickly, she climbed onto the bed. Okay, how to do this? Just .. lay on top of her? Maybe backwards. She squeezed her eyes shut and slowly sunk into the motionless body. And suddenly something clicked. Or sparked. The remaining lights in the house snapped off.

Hah! You can’t get me anymore, you spook! she tried to cry, though found her lips stationary and her consciousness fading. Just a little rest. A rest and then she can rub it in his stupid ghosty face. And maybe she’ll find that boy.

Certainly he’ll find her later with smile on her face.

[The little ghost hovered at the edge of the bed, watching Spoons return to herself, undisturbed by the hellish scream Spectre loosed behind her. Soon enough, he regained control, sucking the mob back into himself; then, only he and the little one remained.]

... chip.

[She almost looked like herself now, just covered in a black film-- a child, a girl even, with hard edges and dents and wires that poked out between the joints in her fingers. Something like eyes glowed happily in her face, looking at the sleeping robot.]

chip.

you’ve killed her. was spiting me. worth. her immortality? for what, peace of mind? how selfish. how terrible. and they call me a monst--

“Aww, sh-shuddup.”

[There was an unheard crunch, and the chill slunk out of the window’s cracks, leaving little behind but a bad aftertaste and scattered antiques.]

[It was Plifterston but also a shadow and a shell of the place. Something in between. Wisps of creatures passed through, sparing no mind to the things stuck in this limbo. 'Lonely,' perhaps the best way to describe it. But there was something more solid somewhere here, something with a gravitational pull, something that.. pulsed. Like the pumping of fluid through a line.]

She wasn’t a spirit and yet she somehow was at the same time; a miserable half-whisper of a completely-forgotten person with no anchor to hold it in place. Thus far, she’d drifted about aimlessly, lingering over familiar places and feeling nothing. Though she had no real memory, no real notion of self, she still felt as if she had been lonely forever, though this was worse: lonelier, colder. 

When she felt a tug, she veered slowly towards it, like a leaf caught in the wind. What else was there for her?

[staticspectre]

“cajunspoons

Spoons found herself buffeted along with the spirits until everything was a blur of motion and emotion. She had just resorted to pulling away when the world suddenly flipped and zoomed away as they were slingshot into the bedroom.

It took a moment for the ghost to right herself and find her bearings. Curious, she looked for what all the excitement was about. She approached the bed, frowning softly. Something felt so familiar about this – but wait!

She snapped around to face Spectre.

“Is, uh, is he…?”

[The harsh white eyes snapped to Spoons, refocusing from the surprise of seeing her body. But before he could surge forward, the swarm of little spirits laced up and around him, netting him in place. Only one whipped out toward her-- the first one to whisper to her, now a angular silhouette, pushing her toward her body with hard, tiny hands.]

“G-GO!”

[It was Plifterston but also a shadow and a shell of the place. Something in between. Wisps of creatures passed through, sparing no mind to the things stuck in this limbo. 'Lonely,' perhaps the best way to describe it. But there was something more solid somewhere here, something with a gravitational pull, something that.. pulsed. Like the pumping of fluid through a line.]

She wasn’t a spirit and yet she somehow was at the same time; a miserable half-whisper of a completely-forgotten person with no anchor to hold it in place. Thus far, she’d drifted about aimlessly, lingering over familiar places and feeling nothing. Though she had no real memory, no real notion of self, she still felt as if she had been lonely forever, though this was worse: lonelier, colder. 

When she felt a tug, she veered slowly towards it, like a leaf caught in the wind. What else was there for her?

[staticspectre]

cajunspoons

Jacob did what any sensible person would do when their work (and home) was suddenly filled with paranormal activity. He screamed, peed a little, and hauled ass out of the shop, into his truck, and down the road.  Perhaps this one time he could be forgiven for not locking up, though explaining his way out of a speeding ticket might be a little more difficult.

Spoons, meanwhile, was a little whirlwind of trouble. It seemed Spectre had found the one thing that could turn the morose ghost into a spirit of vengeance. Bolstered by the other spirits, she refused to back down, like anyone with nothing else to lose.

[Spectre lunged at one of the larger, roiling spirits, pinning it like a mouse. It struggled, yowling, and the malevolent thing grinned as it was reabsorbed into the whole.

[The grin disappeared as several stronger spirits lunged for the back of the shop, causing Spectre to violently fall over as if the rug had been pulled out from under him. The pack of ghosts crawled quickly through the building, screeching and rattling the furnishings, pulling their recently usurped master behind them, who in turn pulled the strings of tiny poltergeists and their armaments in the living world.

[Spectre roared, digging his talons into the pseudo-ground as he was dragged. HE was in control here; HE was all their collective strength and intellect, a nightmarish god. And THIS?

[THIS WAS BULLSHIT.

[At a juncture of hallways, the rampaging spirits slowed, divided on their next direction, pulling in opposite ways. Spectre took his chance to claw his fingers into a door frame and pull in all dimensions-- and the whole squirming load of ghosts flipped itself through the door like a catapulted octopus.

[On the other side was a bedroom, only recently gone unused. And on the bed, a golden, voluptuous robot, laid out as if at her funeral.

[The wild ones boiled; the small ones tittered; Spectre just stared, his head tilting sideways as if his neck had broke.]

[It was Plifterston but also a shadow and a shell of the place. Something in between. Wisps of creatures passed through, sparing no mind to the things stuck in this limbo. 'Lonely,' perhaps the best way to describe it. But there was something more solid somewhere here, something with a gravitational pull, something that.. pulsed. Like the pumping of fluid through a line.]

She wasn’t a spirit and yet she somehow was at the same time; a miserable half-whisper of a completely-forgotten person with no anchor to hold it in place. Thus far, she’d drifted about aimlessly, lingering over familiar places and feeling nothing. Though she had no real memory, no real notion of self, she still felt as if she had been lonely forever, though this was worse: lonelier, colder. 

When she felt a tug, she veered slowly towards it, like a leaf caught in the wind. What else was there for her?

[staticspectre]

cajunspoons:

Dropping his head into his hands, Jacob bit back a sob. Spoons was seething.

It wasn’t the threats to her memories – she didn’t have them, so what use were they? It wasn’t the thought of becoming a wasted, shriveled soul, as she currently had no real understanding of what she was. It was the boy, the boy whose name she didn’t know, who she had only a shredded connection to.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” she howled, her hands bunched into fists. She didn’t know or understand what the broken spirits wanted, but she couldn’t just stand there and wait any longer. Letting out an angry screech, she launched herself at the leering Spectre, tearing and clawing like a wild animal.

[The ghostly wrigglers let Spoons take point and launched their own offensive-- namely, inciting chaos.

[A cracked teacup flew at Spectre’s head and he dodged instinctively, accidentally landing in the way of one of Spoons’ swipes. He hissed, and the saucer clipped through his shoulder, ghostly will imbuing it with the power to affect him. An ornate, broken pocket watch swung through the air as if wielded by an invisible David. On the other side of the room, a children’s book flapped ineffectually in the air, while a wooden rolling horse bravely bumbled forward, running over the tendrils of several other ghosts, who shrieked and spread out wildly, rattling cases and shelves.]

NO.

[Spectre growled, feeling the reins slipping from his mental grip. He had to let Spoons strike him, retreating from her back into the store; to spare her too much focus would cost him all control!

[Poor Jacob was quite forgotten in the interim.]

[It was Plifterston but also a shadow and a shell of the place. Something in between. Wisps of creatures passed through, sparing no mind to the things stuck in this limbo. 'Lonely,' perhaps the best way to describe it. But there was something more solid somewhere here, something with a gravitational pull, something that.. pulsed. Like the pumping of fluid through a line.]

She wasn’t a spirit and yet she somehow was at the same time; a miserable half-whisper of a completely-forgotten person with no anchor to hold it in place. Thus far, she’d drifted about aimlessly, lingering over familiar places and feeling nothing. Though she had no real memory, no real notion of self, she still felt as if she had been lonely forever, though this was worse: lonelier, colder. 

When she felt a tug, she veered slowly towards it, like a leaf caught in the wind. What else was there for her?

[staticspectre]

cajunspoons:

Jacob sunk into a nearby chair, letting out a soft groan. These thoughts weren’t new, but they were really getting to him this time. If it had just been one of them, maybe he wouldn’t be taking this so hard. But the little voice was right: he wasn’t helping anyone. He couldn’t.

Spoons was desperate. She couldn’t remember the boy, not quite, but she’d roll over dead before she let this monster hurt him. She even tried gnawing at the link, despite the phantom pains it caused her. She quickly nodded at the little spirit, then whirled back on Spectre. She yanked on a tendril, trying to get his attention.

“Why are you doing all this, anyway? What are you? Other than disgusting!”

yesss. you might as well. give up. sit there. rot. you waste of space. scared. little boy.

... you could call it. a compulsion.

[Spectre rolled his head around to leer at Spoons.]

 i can admit. that i am bitter. i spent. a long. long. time. stuck. and mocked. and ignored. i used. to justify it. with philosophy. but. honestly?

i deserve this.

[The small spirit had wiggled along the floor purposefully and had begun to inch up a display case. It wasn’t the only one; a militia of inchworms seemed to be fleeing Spectre’s mass, worming between glass panes and up old wooden legs, making sure to keep their black tethers slack.]

and as for. you. dear babelle. we’re going to find your memories. but. they’re not. for you. they’re for me.

i’ve heard. that one should. avoid. empty calories.

[It was Plifterston but also a shadow and a shell of the place. Something in between. Wisps of creatures passed through, sparing no mind to the things stuck in this limbo. 'Lonely,' perhaps the best way to describe it. But there was something more solid somewhere here, something with a gravitational pull, something that.. pulsed. Like the pumping of fluid through a line.]

She wasn’t a spirit and yet she somehow was at the same time; a miserable half-whisper of a completely-forgotten person with no anchor to hold it in place. Thus far, she’d drifted about aimlessly, lingering over familiar places and feeling nothing. Though she had no real memory, no real notion of self, she still felt as if she had been lonely forever, though this was worse: lonelier, colder. 

When she felt a tug, she veered slowly towards it, like a leaf caught in the wind. What else was there for her?

[staticspectre]

[Spectre breathed out, chilling the air around Jacob. Old habits did die hard-- he hadn’t had much inclination to put the screws to somebody since he made his pact with Ferdinand. But this miserable little one was such easy pickings... and anger from little Babelle was a good sign.]

failure. useless. pathetic. [Spectre whispered in the back of Jacob’s brain, forgoing his older, more direct attacks.] she’s dying. and there’s nothing. you. can do...

[Meanwhile-- K-CHNK! She bit through soft, slimy flesh into something much harder, harder than the thought of bone. The little clinging spirit winced, but pulled itself closer, speaking only as loud as it dared.]

“Keee-eep him t-taalking. I mmmigh-might be a-able to heeelp.”

[It was Plifterston but also a shadow and a shell of the place. Something in between. Wisps of creatures passed through, sparing no mind to the things stuck in this limbo. 'Lonely,' perhaps the best way to describe it. But there was something more solid somewhere here, something with a gravitational pull, something that.. pulsed. Like the pumping of fluid through a line.]

She wasn’t a spirit and yet she somehow was at the same time; a miserable half-whisper of a completely-forgotten person with no anchor to hold it in place. Thus far, she’d drifted about aimlessly, lingering over familiar places and feeling nothing. Though she had no real memory, no real notion of self, she still felt as if she had been lonely forever, though this was worse: lonelier, colder. 

When she felt a tug, she veered slowly towards it, like a leaf caught in the wind. What else was there for her?