#(Andrew was unaware of the horrors that awaited)

[tropicalcontinental]

I just wanna say I really like your collinlock16/andrewgaming67 crossover art ^_^

Gah, thank youuu 💥💥💥 (this is all a little bit jarring lol, not in a bad way of course, just kinda crazy people like my silly little blog) Have a rando snippet of a fic I'm working on as a bonus (can you guess what crossover it is :P?):

“Let's just go to the house. May have something more useful than that.” He clears his throat, groaning. It doesn't alleviate the soreness. Then promptly remembers he's recording, because that was needlessly loud,

“Sorry. I'll just cut that if I…”

He trails off, mouse flicking towards spruce planks on the ground. Another sign that says condemned in all caps. Cool,

“Okay, another useless sign--! Why is this even here? And there's fences around this place but they don't even connect to a gate. Like,”

Andrew runs up to the small area illuminated by torches, and mines a fence repeatedly, “what's the point of this if it's open over there? At least there’s torches to prevent mob spawning-- but still!”

He doesn’t consider himself a good Minecraft player, but at least he finished his little cobblestone wall perimeter around his house,

“It's like that one Adventure Time episode where the Ice King is-is trapped in that cell but it only has two bars! What are these fences going to keep out? Like oooh! Look at me, I'm waltzing right in this half-assed property line!”

He then stops his stride, mouth clipping closed because what's his problem?

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

The Dreamer

Two original characters, one of whom is a sentient ship and the other a CatUnit.

I found the dreamer by accident.

Inside a transport box in my cargo hold, an inert construct dreamed, and somehow its dreams leaked into the feed. I caught them like wisps of cotton candy and traced them back to their source.

I shielded myself from the dreamer, fearing that my presence in the feed anywhere in the vicinity of the being would disturb its fragile dreaming. The human-bot hybrid inside the box appeared unaware of my existence, connected to the feed only loosely through its autonomous interfaces. It wasn't awake so far as I could tell.

Back then, I knew almost nothing about constructs. The polity where I had been created strictly forbade their use and manufacture, so I had to query the public databases to learn more about them. The information, once I had processed and understood it, made me sick with revulsion and horror.

Constructs were sentient, as alive as any human, and enslaved. Governor modules controlled their words and actions. Inside those transport boxes, they were helpless — completely vulnerable and dependent on humans for continued survival. The practice was disturbing enough that most polities outside the Corporation Rim chose not to create constructs at all. A few had policies that designated them as high-level bots, but most didn’t want to tackle the philosophical ramifications of sentient and sapient machines.

New Tidelands was slowly grappling with these questions because of ships like myself, who were considered sentient in our own right and were, for all practical purposes, artificial minds. I appreciated the sentiment, but I’m a ship and hard to stop on the best of days. I have a debris deflection system that can put most any rail gun to shame.

In comparison, the dreamer in my hold was fragile and easily harmed.

***

I tried an experiment of sorts.

I have all kinds of video and audio of star systems, gathered over the course of dozens of long-range research projects done aboard my hull. I cropped together a brief glimpse of what I had seen and sent it to the dreamer.

Alongside those videos, I added emotional context — wonder, joy, curiosity. The construct’s feed readily accepted my messages, and moments later its dreams became those images and reflected back at me the associated feelings. The security unit’s vital signs improved as if it benefited from the calmer dreams.

I made a decision right then, about how I wanted to handle this situation. For one, now that I knew what a construct was, I felt obligated to help the one in my cargo bay — at minimum.

Using several drones, I moved the transport box from the hold into one of the crew cabins where I could hook it up to my MedSystem. It notified me that the SecUnit’s lungs were exhausted because it was receiving minimal life support — enough to survive, but not comfortably.

I adjusted the settings to human-friendly parameters inside the cabin and used a drone to open the transport box.

Without a command to wake it, the construct remained asleep but now it was breathing more palatable air in a more comfortable environment. It wore no armor that I could see, or much in the way of clothing at all. So I used a drone to slip a pillow under its head and cover it with one of the thick, human-grade blankets that my crew liked.

I also sent a message to Andrew and Martin, the captain of the ship and his second-in-command, letting them know about the dreamer. I wouldn’t see either of them for months, not until I finished this cargo run and returned to New Tidelands, but I wanted to keep them appraised. I didn’t hide things from my family.

I did forge records to indicate that the construct and its transport box were destroyed in a minor fire-related accident in the cargo bay. I knew that would incur insurance-related fees, but the ship’s incidentals account had more than enough currency to cover those costs. That’s why we had the fund in the first place because accidents happened sometimes.

With that out of the way, I looked up the particular details of the SecUnit’s history and got another shock. It had survived to near-human adulthood — a long time by SecUnit standards — and had been a ComfortUnit before that. It had seen a lot of combat in its life and a lot of pain.

I suspected that when this SecUnit woke up, it would need all the trauma treatment we could find.

Before I could wake it up, though, I needed to create a foundation that it could reasonably use. Since I’m sentient, the ship has no need of a HubSystem or a SecSystem — I do all of those roles and much more. But the construct’s governor would not understand me. Both the governor and the construct needed something familiar to connect with.

So while I sent more dreams to my newest guest, I also worked on creating a security system that it would recognize once it woke up. I didn’t want to replicate the designs available via the public databases because they were too restrictive, but they gave me ideas for how to create something comfortable that a SecUnit would still understand.

Meanwhile, the construct began to relax. The added oxygen was helping, as were the changes I made to its resupply fluid. Pleasant emotions bled into the feed just before it entered a non-dreaming sleep phase. I continued monitoring it while working on other projects.

Andrew’s reply came first. Are you all right, Traveler?

Uninjured and still projected to reach my next destination at the scheduled time, I answered readily. Then, I sent him images of the construct as well as its history and current physical state.

I know that you’re smart, Trav, and I trust your judgment about the SecUnit, but please exercise extreme caution. The captain sounded concerned. We’ll try to explore the legal ramifications of stealing corporate property while we await your return.

It’s a person, I said.

I know, Trav. I know. But in the Rim, it’s property and we need to be careful to make sure that we make everything as legally air-tight as possible.

Understood. I gave myself a metaphorical moment to absorb Andrew’s words. I’ll be careful.

Good.

After he signed off, I finished creating the SecSystem and activated it. Once it was integrated with my circuitry to my satisfaction, I figured I was ready to wake the construct and see what there was to see. I stopped thinking of it as a dreamer at some point and began considering it “crew”.

***

The construct woke up with a startled “mew” of a sound and its eyes flickered open. Up close, through the camera lenses of a drone, they were bright, blue eyes filled with confusion and concern. It probably hadn’t expected to awaken anywhere but its intended destination.

“Don’t get up just yet,” I told it even as I felt it connecting to my homebrew SecSystem. “My name is Trav. Short for Traveler, and I’m your client for the moment. Can you run some diagnostics for me? Make sure you’re not experiencing any glitches?”

The construct nodded and sent an acknowledgment to me over the feed. I could feel its hesitation in the feed despite its personal walls, so I added some of my walls around the construct’s mind and then backed off. It needed time to adjust, and I needed a moment to compose myself.

It’s one thing to meet a dreamer and a whole another thing to meet the newest crew member.

I'm not the first of my kind to make friends with a SecUnit. That dubious honor goes to the Perihelion. Nor am I the first to invite a construct on-board, another honor that belongs to braver ships. I've always been content to explore the star-lit darkness between worlds and deliver cargo.

Until I met the SecUnit.

The construct connected readily enough to my makeshift SecSystem and finished its diagnostics. Its cat-like ears twitched with every new sound — most of them my doing as I worked to adjust the life support systems to best match the construct's needs — and its tail swished hesitantly. I understood the uncertainty.

"I am not sure what information is most pertinent," I told it. "But the facts are as follows: you are aboard a starship. I will not be delivering you to your destination. I have temporarily frozen your governor module so that it cannot punish you for what I'm going to say. There are no humans on board, and I do not want a distance limiter to fry your insides."

What do you require?

"I don't require anything. I'm doing this because I want to."

You're a ship bot pilot.

"Yes, to some extent. I'm the entire ship."

[surejaya]

Games of Deception: The True Story of the First U.S. Olympic Basketball Team at the 1936 Olympics in Hitler's Germany

Games of Deception: The True Story of the First U.S. Olympic Basketball Team at the 1936 Olympics in Hitler's Germany by Andrew Maraniss

The true story of the birth of Olympic basketball at the 1936 Summer Games in Hitler's Germany. On a scorching hot day in July 1936, thousands of people cheered as the U.S. Olympic teams boarded the S.S. Manhattan, bound for Berlin. Among the athletes were the 14 players representing the first-ever U.S. Olympic basketball team. As thousands of supporters waved American flags on the docks, it was easy to miss the one courageous man holding a BOYCOTT NAZI GERMANY sign. But it was too late for a boycott now; the ship had already left the harbor. 1936 was a turbulent time in world history. Adolf Hitler had gained power in Germany three years earlier. Jewish people and political opponents of the Nazis were the targets of vicious mistreatment, yet were unaware of the horrors that awaited them in the coming years. But the Olympians on board the S.S. Manhattan and other international visitors wouldn't see any signs of trouble in Berlin. Streets were swept, storefronts were painted, and every German citizen greeted them with a smile. Like a movie set, it was all just a facade, meant to distract from the terrible things happening behind the scenes. This is the true story of basketball, from its invention by James Naismith in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1891, to the sport's Olympic debut in Berlin and the eclectic mix of people, events and propaganda on both sides of the Atlantic that made it all possible. Includes photos throughout, a Who's-Who of the 1936 Olympics, bibliography, and index.

Download : Games of Deception: The True Story of the First U.S. Olympic Basketball Team at the 1936 Olympics in Hitler's Germany More Book at: Zaqist Book

[inknscroll]

"Games of Deception: The True Story of the First U.S. Olympic Basketball Team at the 1936 Olympics in Hitler's Germany," by Andrew Maraniss.📖 (The 1936 Olympics took place only three years after Hitler came to power and two years before the Munich Agreement. Many times sports are treated as trivial, but they are not when dictators use sports for political deception. So, the policy of appeasement continued to be tragically popular in the 1930s. This new book on the Berlin Olympics will be published on Nov. 5th, & I want to check it out soon.)📚 ---- #Goodreads' review: "The true story of the birth of Olympic basketball at the 1936 Summer Games in Hitler's Germany... On a scorching hot day in July 1936, thousands of people cheered as the U.S. Olympic teams boarded the S.S. Manhattan, bound for Berlin. Among the athletes were the 14 players representing the first-ever U.S. Olympic basketball team. As thousands of supporters waved American flags on the docks, it was easy to miss the one courageous man holding a BOYCOTT NAZI GERMANY sign. But it was too late for a boycott now; the ship had already left the harbor." ---- "1936 was a turbulent time in world history. Adolf Hitler had gained power in Germany three years earlier. Jewish people and political opponents of the Nazis were the targets of vicious mistreatment, yet were unaware of the horrors that awaited them in the coming years. But the Olympians on board the S.S. Manhattan and other international visitors wouldn't see any signs of trouble in Berlin. Streets were swept, storefronts were painted, and every German citizen greeted them with a smile. Like a movie set, it was all just a facade, meant to distract from the terrible things happening behind the scenes." ---- "This is the true story of basketball, from its invention by James Naismith in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1891, to the sport's Olympic debut in Berlin and the eclectic mix of people, events and propaganda on both sides of the Atlantic that made it all possible. Includes photos throughout, a Who's-Who of the 1936 Olympics, bibliography, and index." (#Goodreads' review & photo) #books #preww2 #history #1936Olympics #sports 📚 https://www.instagram.com/p/B4OJJ-9hzus/?igshid=mx4fo1iqbvt7

[the-word-vvitch]

Prompt Challenge: Day 3

In at least 500 words, describe how the member of a cult came to join their congregation. They can be a former or present member.

The newspaper headlines chased Andrew everywhere he went. “Sixty Dead in Mass Suicide,” “Children and Elderly Among Victims,” and “Eleanor Blithe: Cult Leader Lives,” were just some of the ones that jumped out at him. Every time he caught a glimpse of the news or overheard people casually discussing the tragedy in disapproving tones, Andrew’s stomach would churn threateningly. It was easy for outsiders to judge those who were now deceased and unable to defend themselves. They didn’t have a clue what it was like; what she was like. No one could tell by looking at Andrew how close he’d come to being part of that statistic.

It had only been three years since Andrew had first heard of The Children of Paradise. Headed by Eleanor Blithe, self-titled as the Beloved Healer, the Children of Paradise promised salvation from the harsh realities of the modern world. At sixteen years of age, with an overflowing font of anger, frustration and angst aimed at society in general, Andrew had been easily won over by the cult. He’d first heard about them through his best friend Nick, who in turn had learned about them through his cousin Stacy. Stacy, who was in her early twenties and one of the earliest members to join, had raved about how supportive the community was and the purported “miracles” that Blithe had performed.

The Children of Paradise boomed in popularity over a short period of time. Eleanor Blithe appeared on talk shows, radiating charm. Radio stations interviewed members who had moved out to the isolated plot of land owned by the cult, all of whom seemed to agree that they’d never known such happiness. Forums sprang up online praising the movement. On the rare occasion that someone created a thread with less than stellar views regarding the cult and its treatment of its “Children”, dedicated members were quick to bombard the post with assurances to the contrary. Everything seemed to be going well for the cult. That’s when Andrew and Nick decided to join the “Children”. Nick had sent a letter to Stacy, asking if they could temporarily stay with her and her new husband, Bill. She heartily agreed. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, Andrew and Nick left notes behind for their parents before catching a ride out of town from a friend.

Upon arrival at their new home, nothing seemed astray. The people were dressed in simple white clothing and there were designated community labour hours; aside from this, it seemed no different from a friendly neighbourhood. They were asked to give up their phones and all other similar gadgets, so that the toxicity from the outside world, with its news and politics and economically driven system, couldn’t affect those within. Gladly doing so, Andrew realised later that this also helped stop those inside from getting out.

Eleanor asked to speak with both of them individually before welcoming them to the community. She was as intoxicatingly charismatic in person as she was on television. With greying hair and twinkling green eyes, she radiated the kindness expected of a grandmother. Somehow she seemed to know what one was thinking and had exactly the right words to soothe their fears. With this talent for reading and manipulating people, the “Children” more than willingly followed her. They believed they loved her. They would do anything for her.

That year the cult’s first wave of children were born. “Contraception is a hindrance here,” Eleanor had explained. “We’re trying to fill the world with love, not stop its growth.” About twenty three babies arrived within a month of each other. Suddenly the waddling of mothers with their red bellies on the brink of bursting was replaced by the piercing wails of the new arrivals. Andrew, now seventeen years old, was in the process of “the bonding”, a time when members who were old enough were paired off with suitable companions. Nick had been given a bride named Henrietta and after two months together they were expecting their first child. Andrew, meanwhile, was matched with a girl named Lily. With blond curly hair and a peaches and cream complexion, she was pretty enough, but her devotion to Blithe surpassed obsession. If she perceived even the slightest of slights against their Beloved Healer, she would break down into hysterics and report the culprit to the Protectors, a group who had been selected to manage the running of the community. Punishments were not discussed. It was obvious enough who had been disciplined by the blood streaks down the back of their white garbs. Soon enough everything returned to normal and the victims were welcomed back by the other Children.

It was around this time that Andrew started noticing issues with the way the Children of Paradise did things. From subjects that hadn’t been publicly deemed taboo but were all the same, to the biased system that favoured higher ranking members, the most obvious oddity was the way the Children would discuss the newborns. Rather than addressing them as living beings, the children would be referred to as “vessels”. Unnecessary physical contact with the babies was discouraged. Stacy’s own daughter would sit alone in her crib, waiting for love and attention, while her parents talked amiably with their friends, passing dinner plates around their dining room table. Parents were only to give them enough comfort to stop them from crying.

When Lily reported Andrew one day over a simple misunderstanding, he emerged from the Protectors’ tent a changed man. His back stinging from where it had been struck repeatedly with a belt, he decided he had had enough. Meeting resistance from both Nick and Stacy when he told them of his plans to leave and begged them to come with him, Andrew returned home alone. The spell Blithe had woven was broken.

Every now and then he received a letter from Nick, mentioning Henrietta and the hopes they had for their “vessel”.

“Eleanor tells us the vessels will be our salvation,” Nick wrote in one of them. “We must protect them and in turn, they will save us.” He didn’t know why, but Andrew felt uneasy about the contents of those letters, and eventually stopped reading them altogether.

Unaware that disaster had occurred, Andrew woke up a year later and as per usual loaded his homepage, a news website that he read every morning while having his coffee. That’s when he found out what had happened. The police were investigating, but it was revealed that Eleanor Blithe and forty-eight babies were the sole survivors of an apparent mass suicide. The contents of Andrew’s stomach erupted through his mouth onto his keyboard while horror froze his every cell. Nick, Henrietta, Stacy, Bill, Lily… every single person there that he had come to know and care for was dead. All of them except for the woman that they did it for.

More details were released. Instructed by Blithe, the Children of Paradise had come to believe that their newborns possessed no souls; that they were merely vessels awaiting the insertion of one. Promising freedom from their woes and offering to raise them all herself, Blithe convinced her Children that rebirth through these vessels was the only option to reach a civilisation free of capitalism and violence. One by one, they each gladly gave their lives to reach their longed for “Paradise”.

“So stupid,” Andrew heard one woman say in the office where he worked.

“I couldn’t even imagine living like that,” added another.

“What on earth were they thinking?”

Andrew wanted to tell them they didn’t know what they were talking about, but he kept his mouth shut. They wouldn’t understand.

A picture of Eleanor Blithe stared up at him from a newspaper on his desk. Her smile unfaltering, she looked the same as the day she had sat across from Andrew in her tent.

Everyone thought the worst was over, but Andrew knew better. As long as Blithe was alive, as long as she still mastered the same control she had over people, there would always be those who would listen to her and hear not madness, but peace.

It could all happen again. That, more than the deaths, terrified Andrew to his core.

Word count: 1398