#Red Nanites

[sunyfan]

Nanites - Stock Images

I recently found my stock arts of nanites that I drew for GR's fansites. You can also use these for decoration ^_^

Blue nanites:

Yellows:

Reds:

[theaxolotlkween]

lol au where Rex and Noah were friends during the Nanite Project.

[kalpeavaris]

My Design for a Drone!Tessa design. B)

Will be used for my Synemy-universe fanfictions. And yes, I made typos in the information text I never use Procreate to make reference sheets & typing on an iPad is painful. ;_;

Find more informations about her below the cut!

If you're interested in the Spotify Playlist I made for her, check this link out!

Tessas drone design is essentially a hybrid of biological data and a mechanical body. Quite similar to the body of drone Solver hosts with the exception that Tessas Solver powers derive from her marking(s) that spread around her body when her consciousness was first transferred into a new body.

As soon as her memories kicked back in and she accepted the new body, the marking started to spread, lines of code inscribing themselves on her back to start up her consciousness. Without this code she'd essentially be... a blank slate without a personality nor memories to call her own.

The marks can & will glow when her Solver is in use and they can move, although their general shape and position stays the same. The whole "tattoo" is like a living being. It's... her "core" so to speak. Also, the two red lines on her backside are where her wings sprout from. She does possess blood & internal organs like other Solver Hosts. Something that differenciates her though is the lack of segmented arms & legs like all Workers have them - thanks to her bio data re-forming her body to a certain extend.

Tessa also has wings & a tail, with her wings looking tattered to represent a more feathered look. Her tail doesn't have nanite acid, but instead barbs and a gradient reminiscent of her eyes. c:

Her Solver colors & eyes' gradient don't have a deeper meaning outside of just looking cool. She's not sharing her body/mind with someone else, no worries.

Tessa has memories of her former life, her parents and her death. She doesn't really know anything after her death though, which is obvious since she couldn't collect new memories after this point. Although she retained alot from her personality as a teenager, now a young adult in her 20s, she does have moments of feeling isolated and anxious over her new life and body.

However, in the future, she finds footing & learns to ground herself with the help of the Others around her - primarily J. She's outgoing and extroverted, doesn't shy away from speaking her thoughts out loud... and yes, she quotes human memes she knows from the internet.

And yes, she will teach Uzi & the others Gen Z slang to the point where the Solver might consider disconnecting itself entirely. Tessa will mainly be a focal point of the story that happens after "Synemy", but will make appearances in Synemy itself!

[comicaurora]

What other mythological creatures would be fun in space? If the answer is "most of them?", Then limit the scope of the question to what becomes *more* fun in space?

Still "most of them," unfortunately.

Deep in the bowels of a derelict, drifting hulk, so battered with cosmic rays and space debris all sign of its original function have eroded away, something that could have been human roams the labyrinthine halls. Who knows what terrible crime or tragedy spawned it? It is huge, and hungry, and terribly, terribly alone. All anyone knows is that the drifting hulk that screams to the void in a hundred looping distress calls is to be avoided at all costs, for the maze is deadly and its lone prisoner even deadlier.

An enchanting woman knocks on the porthole with a broad smile, hair flowing in beautiful curls and mouth moving soundlessly in the boiling vacuum. She seems unaware of the inch-thick tempered plasteel, or perhaps unaware of its necessity for the mortal and the fragile within. As she stares unblinking, whispers begin to crackle over the ship radio, half-parseable snatches in many voices - surnames, stardates, coordinates. The knowledge is so, so tempting.

The astronaut is standing just outside the airlock. The sun is starting to sink behind the lunar horizon, cutting razor-sharp shadows across the silvery dust. He's been standing, patiently, for over four hours. The crew in the lander are huddled as far away from the door as possible, unconacipusly avoiding the astronaut's cold and vacant bunk. They had buried him, after all, three rotations ago, the special kind of dead you only get after decompression-induced exsanguination. And yet here he stands, looking better than ever, a healthy blush in his cheeks clearly visible without that bulky reflective helmet in the way. His eyes catch the setting sun strangely, almost red.

Space is an ocean, they say; the analogy is imperfect, and yet persistent in its poetry. The seafarers of old coasted along the surface of a vast and unknowable deep and called it sailing, and the spacefarers of the new frontier do the same. They speed between the stars or cut through wormhole gates for the occasional shortcut, skimming the three-dimensional surface of the vast four-dimensional space that wormholes can only tentatively pierce, and they are satisfied. But there are strange shadows in the stars, twisting and slow - distortions that ripple out from the hyperdepth and mostly pass without incident, barring the sensitive instruments left screaming in their wake. Nobody has ever seen the four-dimensional leviathans that cast these three-dimensional shadows. At least, nobody who's come back.

They call it a dragon because it flies and it's the scariest thing they've ever seen. It doesn't do it justice. If anything, trying to give it a familiar name only highlights its horrible uncategorizability. It flies, yes - or at least it undulates through atmosphere, seemingly irrelevant to its own mass. It has a golden hoard and breathes poison and fire, or rather the nuclear furnace that boils in its sinuous belly vomits out great gouts of poison fire that leaves stone and flesh as glassy slag and metals fused into radioactive gold. The land all around its lair is blackened and sick, a vile caldera of strange-colored swampland and twisted, fungal trees. In the absolute terror and devastation of its wake, the colonists fall back on old, bad superstitions and offer it a girl…

The sorcerer took out his heart long ago, they say. This is true, but inadequate. His true body is shattered in closely guarded pieces to protect himself from a total death; the form he presents is only a projection of his will onto and through the nanite colony his machinations spawned, a body crafted by the immortal mind and will of one who sacrificed everything to be deathless. His heart is concealed in a small life support capsule in a long-forgotten laboratory in a satellite orbiting the moon of a quarantined colony world; his nervous system wires itself through the vast, organic computer that has taken the place of the planet's core. Backups of backups of backups, redundancies laced through every stolen system. He knows there was a purpose to this, once; a goal to all this sacrifice beyond a simple extension of life. He will never remember who he wanted this for. To be truly deathless, one cannot have a heart.

It's retroviral, they think. No other form of infection could've rewired her cells this fundamentally. It's irreversible without gene therapy, but at least she isn't deteriorating, they say. At least she's holding together while they look for a treatment. She can feel it, though, no matter what the medic says; sub-cellular or not, she can feel it boiling under her skin, sharpening her teeth, burning out from the site of the bite on her arm. And she can feel, with absolute certainty, the planet's two satellites slowly shifting into opposition with the sun, right through the windowless walls of the quarantine pod. She doesn't know what she'll become when the moons are full, but she doesn't speak her suspicions. A part of her - perhaps even a part that's always been there - is very, very eager to find out.

A colony was here once, a long, long time ago. Terraformed and everything, but those were the early days, before they realized you needed a magnetosphere to keep all that air and water from being wicked away by the solar wind. The loss was so gradual it didn't make sense until over a century later, and there wasn't anything they could do for them long-term - wrong kind of core for a polarization op. They did evac, of course, but the priority was low - and it was centuries deep into social development. Everybody on that world had been born there, and some of them didn't want to leave. Way I hear it, some of them insisted on staying - strongly and violently - and the folks in charge eventually got tired of losing troops in a dessicating backwater that was gonna solve itself in less than a century, so they just fudged the paperwork and washed their hands of the whole thing. It's near airless now - stopped being a viable colony world nigh on thirty years back when the last of the ice vanished. But that's not why we steer clear. We don't land there because the locals didn't have the decency to die right, and it can be damn unsettling to catch their shadows sneaking across the sand. They're drawn to ships, you know? Poor bastards still think they can leave.

[jpitha]

Between the Black and Grey 66

First / Previous / Next

By now, Fen was getting rather tired of waking up in strange locations with intense pain all through her body.

She didn't even bother sitting up in shocked surprised. She wearily opened her eyes and stared at the paneled ceiling for a few minutes. Her body felt like she had a sunburn all over. It stung and ached and felt hot and hurt. She just hurt.

Fen sighed and sat up on her elbows and looked around. She was in a stateroom - on a ship probably; if she had to guess it's was Gord's ship - laying on a bed. She looked down at herself and - oh. Her entire body was bright red, like she had a burn. That explains the sting at least. Next to the bed was a side table with a bottle of water and a aloe dispenser.

"Hey, is anybody home? Nanites? Vel? Han'iel's Nanites?" She thought. No reply. Best not to worry about it now. Fen finished sitting up and applied the aloe to all of her exposed skin. She felt more slippery but it didn't really stop the pain. After the aloe had dried, she got up and tried walking around the room. It was small and spartan, but clean. Just as she was about to step out and explore more, the door opened and Chloe stepped in.

Fen started and took a step back. Chloe's tall body, long hair and severe look was intimidating, but in the back of her mind, Fen had noticed that when she was Empress it didn't bother her as much. She wondered if the Nanites - in addition to giving her vocal language and body language skills - had given her some kind of boost in confidence as well. "Fen, you're awake." It wasn't a question.

"Uh, yes Chloe... how long has it been?"

"About eight standard hours since Gord brought you onboard."

"About that," Fen looked around the room. "Where am I? I'm not on my yacht."

"That is correct. You're onboard our ship. When it's automated it's called Birches."

Fen sat on the bed. She was still very tired. "That's an unusual name."

Chloe shrugged. "Gord picked it. It was some kind of tree I think. Are you well enough to move around? Gord thinks you should have some food. He's cooking dinner in the canteen."

"Gord can cook?" Fen didn't mean to sound so surprised, but it slipped out. It did make Chloe smirk though.

"I'm told Gord is an excellent cook... so long as you stick to the foods he's skilled at preparing. Remember, he's the oldest one of us, he's had time to practice." Chloe extended her hand to Fen to help her up.

Warily, Fen took her hand. It was so warm! Chloe's persona is one of cold detachment so Fen had kind of thought that her body would be cold as well. With her help, Fen made it down the hall of the small ship to the canteen.

As they approached, a sweet smell emanated from the canteen, with a smoky undertone. It smelled familiar to Fen and when she opened the door, she saw Gord at the stove, fussing over some bacon. He turned and waved. "Fen! Glad you could join us. The bacon is nearly ready and the waffles are keeping warm in the oven. I have coffee too if you'd like."

Fen hadn't realized how hungry she was until she smelled the food cooking. She sat at the table and Gord brought over a large plate of food and a mug of coffee. Next to it was a small squeeze bottle of maple syrup. "The real stuff too! I do have standards after all." Gord said, laughing.

It was delicious. Fen wasn't sure if it was the food, or her recent trauma, or everything all together, but she was sure she hadn't had a meal this good in decades. "Gord, this is amazing, where did you get it? I didn't think AIs ate. Why would you have bacon?"

Gord sat down across from her with a plate of his own food. Chloe sat as well, but only had a cup of coffee. "We don't have to eat, but many of us choose to. We might be our own people and have our own traditions, but we were built by humans first and have quite a few human traits. Many of us have taste receptors, so why not use them? It's less efficient of a source of energy than a mini reactor, but we can still turn the food into energy, kilocalories and kilocalories after all. Besides, the bacon is artificial and stores well, and the waffle mix is powdered. Kept sealed and away from air, it lasts a long time."

Fen was barely listening. She was too occupied eating.

After breakfast, Fen offered to clear the table, but Gord wouldn't hear of it. "You're our guest Fen, please allow me." Chloe got up with him, and they both loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the surfaces while Fen sat and nursed her second coffee. After they had finished cleaning they sat back down. "Fen." Gord said. "The K'laxi nanites fought the Builder Nanites in your body.

"Yes, I know. While I was under the three of us... had a discussion."

"Did you?" Gord raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. Well, let's hear it from your side then. What did you learn?"

Fen told Gord and Chloe about their discussion and how long the K'laxi nanites had been active as well as their reaction to her original Builder nanites. "I took the neck snapping to mean that they had succeeded in defeating them, and since I'm still alive I assume that means you and Chloe were able to save my physical body too." Fen took a sip of coffee as she finished.

Gord looked at Chloe, who nodded. "Tell her, Gord."

Fen's blood ran with ice at that. "Tell me what?"

"Aw jeez." Gord leaned forward and rubbed his hand on his forehead. "I was hoping to wait a bit until you got your strength back before bringing it up."

"Bring what up, Gord?" Fen's face was trying at the same time to look intimidating but also hiding how frightened she is.

Then, Fen was in a room. This one was stark white, with bright overhead lights and machinery crowding one corner. Indicator lights blinked and bits of equipment beeped happily at other bits. Sticking out of the center of the machinery about a meter was a long oblong sphere, like a lozenge. It was... different than the other equipment. Where the machinery seemed thrown together and ad-hoc, this was much more... weighty. Smooth corners, thick walls, it was clearly something meant to last a long time.

It's a hibernation cabinet.

Fen walked over to the cabinet, shakily. When she touched the top, it felt cold, like the insulation of the cabinet was holding back a terrible chill. Set into the top was a small, clear, thick window. She knew what was going to be in there, but she had to look. She had to. She got on her tiptoes and looked inside.

Fenchurch Whitehorse, Empress of Humanity (former) was inside; her eyes shut, her hair shaved, and fully half her skull covered in electrodes and wires. Dried blood was around her lips, nose, and ears. As if to drive the point home, a rime of frost framed her face. She looked so tired.

"I'm sorry Fen." Gord and Chloe appeared behind her. "When you were told that removing the nanites was most likely fatal, you were right. When I tried with the anti-nanite gas back on Home a couple of years ago, I wasn't sure if it would work - or if you'd survive. For what it's worth, I'm glad it didn't work and you and Zhe didn't die then." Gord said, softly.

"I-I-if I'm in there," she pointed. "Then how am I here?"

"Fen, we're experts in minds." Chloe said. "Human brains are different from AI brains, but only slightly different. You're running on... outboard processing."

"Outboard processing?"

"Er, I assume you noticed the wires? We're running you in most of the machinery around the hibernation cabinet. We need your body to do it, but mostly as a bootstrapper. Ninety percent of you is in the machinery."

Fen's legs felt rubbery. She put her hand back to steady herself, and... sat heavily into the couch in her apartment. Gord and Chloe looked around. "This is your old place." Gord said, with a touch of surprise. "You know, it usually takes a while for humans to be able to do that."

"Except when they're on the verge of a panic attack and start jumping around to places of comfort." Chloe said, glaring at Gord. "I told you she wasn't going to like it."

"You also said to tell her." Gord pointed out.

"Just because I said to tell her doesn't mean you had to show her the cabinet. It must be frightening for a human to see themselves like that."

"Probably, though I've known a few in my day that would have moved Heaven and Earth to be running like Fen is now."

"Gord." Fen said quietly.

"There you go again, Gord, bringing up things that happened thousands of years ago. I swear you do it just to win any conversation. 'On a long enough timeline' bullshit." Chloe was fully ignoring Fen now.

"Gord." Fen said, louder.

"Don't even give me that Chloe, you're nearly as old as I am. You were a Starjumper before the wormhole generators same as me, and you even got to see my hometo-"

"GORD!" Fen's voice cracked as she shouted.

"Oh, sorry Fen, what's up?" Gord had the decency to look sheepish.

"What happens now?"

"The hibernation cabinet has slowed - though not stopped - the nanomachine war in your body. We did it to buy time, to try and figure out what to do before you died of heatstroke, or were accidentally consumed in their need for mass and energy." Chloe said, sitting across from Fen, "That worked, but it's only bought time. We still need to figure out what to do about them - or if one of them wins - what to do about the winner."

Gord sighed and sat in the other chair next to Chloe - Ma-ren's chair. "There's also the matter about your implant."

"My implant?" Fen sat up straighter and her eyes went wide. "I don't have an implant."

Chloe and Gord shared a look that went over Fen's head. "You do, Fen. It looks freshly installed."

"Careful not to pull your stitches" Han'iel said when he woke her up when she was strapped to the table. So that's what he meant.

"What kind of implant is it?"

Another cryptic look between Gord and Chloe. Now that she knew where she was, Fen could have sworn that there was a sensation of energy passing between them. Maybe they were having a private conversation.

"Fen" Chloe's face was surprisingly soft. The intimidating stare was gone. She reached out and patted Fen's hand. "That's the other reason you're in hibernation. It's an antimatter bomb."

Fen stood up so quickly the coffee table flipped over. "We have to link somewhere! Anywhere! I need to talk to Ma!"

[artbyblastweave]

Which superhero/cape, from any media, would be the most likely to be a force for genuine and lasting good if they were real?

So the cheating bastard answer to this question would be to go digging for one of the various deconstructive cape things where the setting very pointedly includes a superguy who does Solve Everything Forever, as a poke at the unrealized potential of all the big-two superscientists and reality warpers who're prevented from effecting lasting change by editorial fiat and nothing else. For example, the setting of Rising Stars contains a guy with the power of superintelligence who was smart enough to read the writing on the wall and go to ground throughout the bulk of the events of the comic while the more conventional capes were beating the shit out of each other, before finally popping up decades later with the solution to global warming and like twenty other things. See also Miracleman for the ol' "Utopia-at-the-barrel-of-a-gun" approach. Invincible also touches on this; with very light spoilers, by the end of the comic's run the setting is nearly unrecognizable as a superhero setting because a certain character just turbo-optimizes society for preventing and responding to both capeshit outbreaks and more mundane problems.

But if we stick to the more obvious targets of the aforementioned Big-two do-nothings, I'd put good money on Iron Man. In 2014 I'm pretty sure I remember him releasing airborne nanites over San Francisco that eliminated all human infirmities; however, this was after the Red Skull had blasted him with a psychic moral-alignment-changing ray, so he put the effects of the nanites behind a subscription paywall. I don't remember how they weaseled out of acknowledging that he'd created a no-strings cure for all infirmities once they wrapped that arc up. Maybe they pulled out the ol' "FDA concerns" fig leaf. But you get the point I'm gesturing at here. Swap in Reed Richards or Hank Pym as appropriate- basically anyone who really ought to just put their nose to the grindstone and start pumping out miracle fixes instead of getting hauled into the latest globe-shattering debacle or militarized supertech-backed corporate war or divorce hearing or what have you.

[gravedwe11er]

Prime and Protector

Dusted off my writing skills to try my hand at some of the rarepair event prompts! Big thanks to my beta @jayden-writes, sorry for making you read mecha lingo. I will do it again.

Pairing: Rodimus/Deadlock

Cw: none

Wordcount: 3k

Summary: In which Deadlock's plans get drastically disrupted within the span of a single cycle by the prettiest pair of blue optics he's ever seen. And also politics. Can't forget that bit.

If Deadlock had known just how utterly, mind numbingly, spark crushingly boring this job would be, he might not have taken it after all.

Well, no. That's a lie. He’d never be stupid enough to say no to that kind of shanix. When you’re an up-and-coming gun for hire and some noble bastard contacts you, shoving a datapad with the most zeroes you’ve ever seen on it in front of your optics, you’re going to take it, no matter how hard or unpleasant the gig is.

Even if the mech they want dead is the new Prime.

It’s not like Deadlock has some sort of a moral objection to it. As far as he’s concerned, Primus has never done a single good thing for him and neither have any of his chosen, so really, why should he care. This Prime’s a mech like any other, and he’ll die like one too.

That is, if Deadlock could ever get anywhere near the guy. He’s been here for a month already, employed as a guard for the primal residence with the help of the new squeaky-clean records his client got for him, and so far, he has yet to see the Prime anywhere outside a holoscreen. Being the newest mech on payroll, the understandably paranoid chief of security has had him standing outside one of the dozen nearly unused side entrances, out of the way of anyone even slightly important.

Probably until he proves himself to not be an assassin sent here to kill his charge or something like that. Hah.

He’s currently alone, his partner for the day having been called away to deal with an unspecified situation in some other part of the ostentatiously huge residence and leaving him to his own devices. If Deadlock were a betting mech, he’d put his favorite pistol on this being a test, so he stubbornly fights the urge to nod off right where he stands and at least pretends he’s keeping a watchful optic on his surroundings.

Something he turns out to be grateful for when, barely a few klicks later, the elevator separating the Prime’s tower from the rest of the senatorial residential district starts showing signs of activity. Straightening up further, he stands at parade rest with his ridiculous electric spear held up at a perfect angle just as the elevator opens, spitting out two mechs in the middle of a heated argument.

The first is undoubtedly some prissy upper caste bastard, his thin, purely decorative cream-colored armor polished to a mirror shine. But it’s the second one, his arm held by the fancy fragger in a grip so tight it’s visibly denting his plating, that makes Deadlock tense up.

The new Prime looks a bit different than on the holos, his paint nanites changed to blues and purples instead of the usual reds and golds, and he’s visibly scratched up. Reeking of exhaust and burnt rubber, Deadlock would bet he was just dragged away from a street race, which is a shock in and of itself. What really gets him, though, are the sharp, almost bitten off glyphs flying out of his mouth, colored with the strong and unmistakable nyonian slum accent.

Deadlock tries not to stare too hard as the two mechs keep shouting at each other, his presence going unnoticed for the moment. In the few official broadcasts he’s made since his appointment to office, the Prime had sounded like any other noble slagger, the I am better than you attitude oozing out of every polished, perfectly pronounced glyph, but now he’s guessing they must have been heavily edited to hide the mech’s less than stellar origins.Which just begs the question, how in the pit was some nyonian allowed to get anywhere near the matrix in the first place?

Shaking himself out of his inner turmoil and shelving his speculations for the moment, Deadlock turns his attention back on his mark and his enraged minder, having no trouble listening in on their debate with just how fragging loud they’re being.

“-an utter disgrace to the Primal line! Escaping your guard detail, engaging in illegal races and shirking your duties! Again!” scolds the noble with his grating, uppity voice, and Deadlock dislikes him immediately. “How many more times must I tell you to conduct yourself as a mech of your statute!”

The white mech closes his optics, attempting to calm himself while the Prime sulkily stares at the ground. “This cannot be allowed to happen again. If you are unable to behave yourself, then we shall endeavor to find someone who will make it so.” he adds, more quietly now, trying to stare his unrepentant looking ward down despite being a helm shorter.

“Like you don’t already do that?” drawls the Prime, causing the other to take in a slow, calming invent before speaking up again.

“Have you considered General Slipwing’s proposal? I believe he would be the ideal Lord protector for someone of your… temperament.”

That seems to bring some energy to the Prime’s frame, Deadlock watching the mech finally rip his arm out of his minder’s grip to gesticulate wildly. “What? Absolutely not! The guy’s a total bore, not to mention insufferable! I am not gonna deal with him for a moment longer than I have to!”

With a dainty flick of his wrist, the white mech waves off his leader’s protests. “Perhaps the proximity to someone calm and responsible would be beneficial for you, my lord Prime,” he says, tone deceptively mild, not at all masking the insult in his statement.

“No way. Nope. I’m saying no and that’s final, you can’t make me,” shouts the Prime, shaking his helm violently. “We’re done here. I can find a way to my own rooms just fine, and you can go back to all those oh-so-important other duties that you keep reminding me you have.”

With that, the mech turns away from the irate noble and begins stomping his way to the entrance gate, Deadlock quickly returning to parade rest and doing his best to look like he hasn’t just been listening to every single word to come out of these mechs’ mouths. The Prime only makes it a few steps before he suddenly looks up, meeting Deadlock’s gaze with the most striking set of blue optics he’d ever seen.

He finds himself frozen as the leader of the entire cybertronian empire stares at him with an odd, considering look, the two standing close enough for Deadlock to feel the mech’s field when it flares out. It’s unusually strong, and warm too, despite the undercurrent frazzle of irritation, with an echo of something ancient and powerful and other that makes him suppress the urge to shiver.

The moment lasts for a few nanoklicks before the Prime stirs to life, pointing at him with one brightly colored digit.

“You!”

Only vorns of practice stop Deadlock from flinching as he tries to quell a wave of rising panic. Could the Prime have recognized him from somewhere? Frag, has Deadlock killed someone close to him, maybe? He doesn’t remember seeing this mech before, but he could have had a reformat and Deadlock would be none the wiser. Hoping to salvage the situation, he forces out an almost calm sounding “Yes?” before remembering to quickly tack on a “my lord” at the end of the sentence.

Out of all the things Deadlock could have expected, “You could be my Protector!” rolling off the Prime’s glossa was not it.

This time, Deadlock really does twitch, a staticky wheeze coming out of his vocalizer. The Prime’s optics widen, seemingly startled by his own words, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before a shout from behind him takes both of their attention away.

“Have you lost your mind?!” the white noblemech shouts, quickly striding to the Prime’s side. “You would reject dozens of proposals from Cybertron’s elite, yet this is who you would have as your Protector?”

“Well, maybe I don’t want any of them,” says the Prime after a moment of hesitation, crossing his arms defiantly. “Maybe I think, uh-,“ a quick ping against his ID pin, “Deadlock here would be better suited for the job. What about it?”

“What about- Preposterous!” yells the prissy bastard, gesticulating towards Deadlock, contempt obvious on his shiny faceplates. “What sort of jest are you making here? He is a nobody, a common guard, practically a gutter- ah.”

Practically a guttermech, is what that slagger meant, obviously. Deadlock can’t say it bothers him much – some of the things he’s heard aimed at him would peel this little mech’s paint right off, so all he feels about it is the urge to roll his optics, and maybe hit the guy a little bit.

The Prime, to his surprise, seems to take it much more personally.

“What was that?” he grinds out, leaning to loom over the shorter mech like some brawler in a bar. “What were you going to say, huh?”

The noble tries to open his mouth, but is quickly interrupted by the Prime’s finger poking him in the chestplate, the atmosphere quickly growing heated. Quite literally, in this case – Deadlock can see heat shimmering in the air, radiating from the Prime’s armor. A point one percenter ability, maybe?

“’Cause it sure sounds like you wanted to call him a guttermech. Did you forget where your Prime, Primus’ chosen, came from?”

“I apologize, my lord-“

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Just- Don’t let me catch you saying that again, or I swear I’m gonna find some way to make you regret it, understood?”

The mech turns to stare at the ground and nods, looking majorly displeased but sufficiently cowed for the moment, and the Prime steps away from him.

“Besides,” he throws over his shoulder as he makes his way over to Deadlock, “the Matrix approves of him, so there’s that.”

Deadlock’s helm is spinning. He’s having a hard time processing the mental whiplash of all he’s just heard, but he’s given no time to steady himself before the mech is right in front of him, his field stretching out in a friendly manner and mirroring the slightly awkward smile on his faceplate.

“So, what do you say? Would you at least consider it? I know it’s all a bit sudden,” says the Prime, accented words slipping quickly off his glossa. “But hey, you hungry? ‘Cause Primus below I’m starving, and maybe we could talk about all this over a cube?”

Deadlock doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. It feels like gravity has been turned upside down and he’s left floundering, spinning in the void of space. But the Prime’s optics are on his again, and they’re bright and wide and waiting for him to answer, so without really thinking about it, he manages to croak out an “Alright”.

As he’s led away by the excitedly chattering Prime, annoying noble left behind, his thoughts go strangely quiet. This could have been exactly the moment he’s been waiting for, the Prime distracted and vulnerable and alone; an easy target, really. Deadlock could have killed him in any of the empty hallways of the Primal residence, tucked his grey frame away into a random corner and escaped into the night, collecting his paycheck before running away to live out the rest of his days on a faraway colony in comfort and financial security.

With the Prime’s warm servo on his arm and those bright optics looking his way, it doesn’t even cross his mind.

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

In the time it had taken the two of them to wander through seemingly endless fancy looking corridors to find themselves in this lavish sitting room, Deadlock had managed to shake off the mental whiplash and really started thinking through what’s been asked of him. Deadlock, a Lord Protector? Setting aside his real job for a moment, he could just not wrap his processor around why in the pit he’d been asked in the first place. As far as this mech knew, Deadlock was just one of the dozens of guards constantly keeping an eye on his residence. And that mention of the Matrix- It’s not like Deadlock knew much about it or how it worked, never believed it to be much more than a shiny trinket, but if that wasn’t the case? Could it really consider him, him, to be a fitting Protector for this odd little Prime?

Which was why, when they sat down and the Prime handed him a cube, the first question to roll off his glossa was, “Why me?”

“Everyone here sure seems to think I am, but I’m really not,” mutters the Prime, or Rodimus, as he’s been invited to call him, lazily swirling around his own cube of the purest energon Deadlock had ever seen, let alone tasted. Forcing himself to sip it at a measured pace instead of knocking it down like the starving empty he’s been until recently, he can’t help but stare at the Prime’s ridiculously expressive faceplates as he speaks.

“They really don’t want me here. I was never supposed to be a Prime, pit, I was never supposed to get anywhere near the Matrix! But, well, I guess Primus had his own opinion on that,” says Rodimus, throwing Deadlock a cheeky grin.

“So, when it became obvious they really couldn’t pry the thing out of me,” he says, tapping the center of his chestplate, “the senate and the nobles started trying to control me instead. Lightfall has been throwing Protector candidates at me for ages, pretty much the whole time I’ve been in charge. Probably hoping one of them could beat me into submission or something.”

Deadlock rubs his free hand over his finial, helm aching. “That still doesn’t explain why me. We met today.”

“What, you’re saying I haven’t immediately won you over with my shining personality and even shinier polish?” the Prime jokes, spoiler wings wiggling in the most ridiculous display Deadlock has ever seen, and he unexpectedly finds himself fighting a smile.

“But really,” Rodimus sobers a bit, meeting Deadlock’s yellow optics with his own stunning, bright blues, making something inside his chest flutter, “I need someone in my corner. Someone without a political agenda, someone who knows how regular bots live down there, outside of all- this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the riches around them with a downward twist to his mouth.

Contempt colors the Prime’s voice, something very much unusual for a mech of his statute. Then again, if he’s right about his assumption, Rodimus’ origins are far from noble. Oh, and speaking of-

“You’re from Nyon, right?”

The Prime jolts at the interruption before nodding, a surprised smile spreading on his faceplate. “Guilty as charged. You ever been?”

“Once.” On a job. He didn’t stick around for long after the deed was done, would have been dumb idea, but-

Seeing the poor people of Nyon sticking together, helping one another, so different to the violence of the Dead End back alleys he’d crawled out of, made something feel tight in his chest. He tried not to dwell on it.

“Ha, nice! Now, I’m not the best with accents, but lemme guess: Rodion?”

“Got it in one,” says Deadlock with the tiniest hint of a smile, and the two share a look of mutual understanding, no further glyphs needed. There is a certain solidarity in hailing from some of the worst slagpits Cybertron has to offer and, Prime or not, it’s something that never really leaves you.

There’s a pause as Rodimus takes a sip of his fuel before turning back to Deadlock, expression grim. “So, you get it then. You know the slag that goes on outside the tower districts, the way the ‘worthless nobodies’ are treated by the same mechs that are supposed to be their benevolent leaders,” he scoffs.

“But I’m not gonna let them. I believe I was chosen for a reason, that Primus knew things need to change. That I could be the one to change them,” he says, stubborn determination shining through his field.  “But hey, surprisingly, the council is really not happy about that. They’ve been pushing back against everything I try to do, tying it down in complex bureaucracy stuff I don’t really get yet and nobody will explain to me. Pit, I honestly wouldn’t even be surprised if they tried to get me assassinated!”

At that, Deadlock has to suppress a wince, trying to chase away an unexpected frisson of guilt and failing.

“But you, I got a good feeling about you,” says Rodimus brightly, putting a now gold colored servo on Deadlock’s arm and making him feel even worse. “If you became my Protector, we could make things better! We could build better housing in Rodion and get more fuel to Nyon, or push for stricter safety regulations in the mines! We could really make a difference!”

Setting his cube down, the Prime reaches a servo towards him. “I know this is a lot, I know it’s unexpected, but please? Would you help me with this?”

Deadlock stares at the offered servo, thoughts flying around in his processor at light speed. This bot has to be terribly naïve, unbelievably impulsive and potentially mad to be suggesting the second highest government position to a someone he met a few joors ago and who is, unbeknownst to him, an assassin sent here to extinguish his spark.

But Deadlock couldn’t stop thinking about it. About all the times he felt hopeless, helpless to save himself or anyone else. About how the system chewed him up and spat him out, made him feel less than worthless, until he clawed his way out over the greyed-out frames of his targets.

About how this bright opticed, newly minted Prime looked at Deadlock as if he was the solution to all his problems, lovely and honest and maybe a tiny bit desperate. How it made him feel like he mattered. How, for the first time in his miserable functioning, he could maybe, just maybe, change something for the better.

“Did the Matrix really say I should be Protector?”

“Well,” hummed Rodimus, faceplates twisting up in thought, “not exactly? It doesn’t speak, not in words, and it can’t see into the future or anything. But it knows things, knows bots all the way to their sparks, and it communicates that through feeling. Or maybe song, I guess.”The Prime chuckles, waving his servo around vaguely. “It’s really hard to describe, you’d just have to hear it for yourself. But yeah, it’s got a really good feeling about you. Feels like I should do my best to keep you around.”

Reaching out towards Deadlock once more, Rodimus wiggles his digits with an inviting grin. “And honestly, I couldn’t agree more. So, come on! What do you say, Deadlock? Wanna give this better future thing a try with me?”

He thinks about it. He thinks about his paycheck, his plans for a colony getaway, the guns in a hidden subspace pocket he could pull out in a flash and end this fascinating, perplexing, unbelievable bot’s life. He thinks about Dead End, about Nyon, about Kaon, Helex, Tarn, about all the places full of forsaken mechs, mechs just like the two of them. He thinks about Rodimus’ optics, the brightest of blues and full of tentative hope.

Well then.

With a sigh, already dreading the inevitable helmaches that are definitely going to come from this, he accepts his Prime’s outstretched servo, and feels his spark spin faster at the broad, joyful smile on Rodimus’ faceplates.

Looks like he’s gotta inform his client about a change of plans.

Oh, and that reminds him-

“So. About that whole assassination thing you were worried about…”

Taglist: @showstopper35

[sunyfan]

The Number That Changes Everything

3 years ago, I had suspicions that Rex might have a different age. So to dispel all my doubts, I began to draw a timeline of events using measurable facts:

Besides the show, there are other sources indicating that Rex’s current age is 15 years old.

I get it, Man of Action, it’s a “red line” that I shouldn’t cross if I really want to know the truth ^_^

As a result, I got 5 scales:

These scales on Rex’s timeline:

Even in the first version of the graph I have obvious conclusions:

Rex’s birthday is clearly not the same date as Six’s, despite the fact that an entire episode was devoted to this topic.

The Nanite Event and Six’s memory loss also did not occur on this date, otherwise we learned it from Caesar.

Yeas, the show has a character like Caesar, but lack of mention or hint of Rex’s true age from him, don’t letting me to set colored scales correctly..

I could have made a lot of versions of scales location, but something told me to pay attention to dots and that there is also a connection between them..

Hmm… dots forming another scale…

No way..

You’ve got to be kidding me?

Is it for real?

So thanks to WIKI I can even set the correct proportions!

Since things of «Lions and Lambs» and «Back to Black» happen on the same day for Rex, I placed dots on the same level.

I can’t make the dot’s scale longer/shorter because it affects the time and course of events

Well, I have the correct positions of colored scales (second graph), but still no answers. Perhaps if I add Six’s timeline, it will be easier for me to search.

Based on Six’s timeline, almost 2 years have passed in the show, and since there is not a single hint about Rex’s age in the series, so it’s quite possible that the answer lies in the gap of 6 months. But how far should I move Rex’s scale?

The show featured numbers such as «5», «6», «10» (Ben 10) and «15», where the number «6» has a special meaning:

Only 6 Master Control Nanites 6th dangerous man on the planet Six lost 6 years of memory Rex remembers his last 6 years Rex was sent 6 months into the future

Definitely, creators have another, special number and they had moments when they changed the airing dates of episodes just for this certain number. And I can tell which episode this happened.

The show has a special: «HEROES UNITED», the official release of which was 11.25.2011, in other words, it was the 3rd episode on air, but on GRwiki it goes as the 11th episode. Why did they decide to use 11?

I know MOA have such a character as Kevin 11, you don’t have to comment about it ^^

Besides this, «11» also relates to the another ep. like «Back to Black» which was released on the beautiful date: 11.11.2011. It’s remarkable that just in this episode we learn how scared Rex can be when he sees that Providence instantly changed for him, like he had lost his memory again.

But he is not the only one. Six also was in same situation. And do you know what I found out? «11» has its plase in «Six minus Six» too!

When Six was released from his obligation to search for Rex’s family, and One was gone, the anxiety is over in his life. But it wasn’t for long. Сreators hinted back in the series “Promises, Promises” that changes await him.. Six: «Whether for good or ill, our fates will follow the same path».

But that’s not all!

This is it, guys…

One day… some artists of the show published their resume of Generator Rex in honor of it’s anniversary.

Guys!..

It was in 11th Anniversary! 11th! This number is truly special, no less than «6»!

It was in «Six minus Six» where Six changed, It was in «Back to Black» where Providence has changed, It was in «Heroes United» where Ben helped save the World from Alpha, changing Rex’s Builds. And it was on the day when Six found Rex, boy’s life IS CHANGED!

Rex was 11 years old!

I’m not sure that Rex’s and Six’s birthdays are identical, but it’s enough for me to know that these dates in that same 6-month gap. As a result, Rex missed both of his birthdays according to the calendar and memory. And the fact that Rex remembers 6 years was a clue to his true age all these years … astoundingly o_O

Man of Action, I'm giving a standing applaud! It feels like a whole paradigm has changed!.. For good, of course ^^

BONUS

When I was studying the coincidences with the number 11, I thought that if I slightly change the positions of episodes of Season 3, because the existing one looks unnatural and this is what I got:

As far as I remember, starting from the “Black and White”, both sides began to search for meta-nanites and apparently the last one should have been found in special episode, in which Six’s memory should be back too, because it was maaany hints abouth this [ in ep. «End Game 1 & 2» ]… and so as we found out, the creators leave hints for a reason. Also in the same special, the leadership of Providence passes from Black Knight to White, because in the episode «End Game 2» after Rex was kidnapped, Six receives support from the army.

[amelia-queen-black]

*a red sun grenade explodes, depriving Kara of all her powers*

Kara: That’s cheating!

*nanites penetrate Barry’s skin, deactivating his speed*

Barry: When will you stop shooting me with arrows?

Oliver: All I did was make full use of the resources at my disposal. You should try it sometimes.

*he puts his bow on the side, ready to engage in hand-to-hand combat*

Barry to Kara: I guess that’s what we get for betting we could put him down in seconds. And we don’t even have alcohol to blame for that.

Kara: Don’t give up so fast, it’s still two against one, we can beat him.

Spoiler: they couldn’t.

My AO3

[saiyanwitcher]

Prince of Death chapter 20 inspo images:

Just some of my favorite Alonso and Charles pics to go with this surrogate father comfort chapter🥰

“Let me see your cheek?” he asked, voice soft but insistent, trying to break through the fog that seemed to envelop Charles.

Nodded slowly, the Earthling's movements were lethargic and mechanical. Alonso tenderly turned the Earthling’s head to the side, exposing the angry finger marks that marred his skin and his split bottom lip. The sight filled him with a renewed surge of anger towards George, but he forced himself to remain calm. 

He may not have had the will to enforce the Torossian law requiring death on all those that harmed an Eldri for the prince, but he wouldn't be providing the same leniency to the commander.

Rumbling snarls rattled his Oozaru’s cage as it begged to be let loose on Jos' right hand, and his mind was filled with images of snapping bones, tearing flesh, and ripping that ridiculous cape off his shoulders to stuff it down George's throat.

Uncapping a tube of cooling stem nanite gel, Alonso gently applied a generous amount to the red skin, keeping his touch light and soothing. Charles relaxed his shoulders slightly, a small sigh escaping his lips. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words barely audible but filled with genuine gratitude.

Read on AO3

[raaorqtpbpdy]

More Danny Phantom fans should watch Generator Rex tbh, because it’s basically everything we wish Danny Phantom was. (Link to pirate GenRex once you’re convinced and another link to the megs file if that’s what you prefer ; )

Snarky superpowered teenage protagonist? Rex has that in spades (like Danny)

Parents experimented on him? Check (DP fans wish)

A mysterious thing that no one knows much about but it causes unexpected changes in a person? (Nanites are like ectoplasm but scarier imo)

Main character abducted and used by a terrifying government agency? Providence got their grips in him when he was like 10 (they actually caught theirs, take that Guys in White!)

Smart but a little crazy older sibling character? Meet Cesar (our chaotic neutral Jazz)

Scary and powerful mentor figure with a hidden soft side? That’s Six (and he’s actually a regularly recurring mentor unlike *select ghost you wish was Danny’s mentor*)

Main character is part of a highly discriminated against group which is generally not considered human? Here we call them Evos (they’re like ghosts except death would be preferable)

Main character specifically and almost exclusively fights his own kind? Yeah, and Rex can actually cure them instead of just sending them away for two episodes.

Arch nemesis with similar powers to the hero? Van Kleiss walks in, blood-red flowers blooming in his footsteps. (Vlad could never)

We’re initially led to believe the hero is the only good guy in the discriminated against group until it’s revealed that that’s not the case at all.

Plus, there’s kind of a lot of body horror. There’s betrayal. There’s peril. There’s sympathetic villains. Theres a deeply terrifying and yet incredibly intriguing world. A crossover with another series about superheroes (Ben 10, though, not DC). There’s a pile of dead bodies on screen in the first episode—that’s not even hyperbole I’m being 100% literal with you right now.

It even has some inter-dimensional travel shenanigans including a town being pulled into a pocket dimension and leaving no trace. No cloning as far as I can remember though, but it does have a giant mutant rabbit, and the main character even sucks at basketball!

As an added bonus, it was targeted to 10-13 year olds and eventually taken off the air because it scared children : )

It’s everything your average Danny Phantom fan spends hours reading fanfiction about! I’m telling you! I cannot recommend this show highly enough!

[rotworld]

18: Heart of Steel

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you are a relic of a bygone era, a being created to interface with both man and machines when a tenuous peace still existed between the two. after millennia of stasis, you awaken to a horrific future of endless war. the ones who found you are convinced that you're a living avatar of their machine god and their worship is relentless, invasive curiosity.

->warhammer 40k. original skitarii characters/reader. explicit; contains non-con, gangbang, depression, mentions of self-harm via personal neglect/refusing to eat, surreal robot sex, power imbalance.

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Explorator Fleet Spira Mirabilis is unshakably certain that they found God on a failed world smoldering in the glare of twin suns. Whatever lived there once was driven underground by a catastrophic atmospheric generator failure, solar radiation and blistering heat scouring a surface pockmarked by ancient wars. Nothing but rust and ruin remained above ground but the Hephaesian detected persistent electrical currents and the steady thrum of advanced processors—the heartbeat of ancient machinery somewhere beneath the blowing dust.

What they found was a subterranean city-complex dating back to the Dark Age of Technology, magnificent and treacherous with its scan-scramblers and buzzing swarms of malicious code injector-nanites, defenses that confirmed the pricelessness of this discovery. What they found was a single operational stasis pod of unknown make or model, a relic in its own right with a sloping white frame of synthesized organo-mechnical compounds operating in perfect, self-repairing harmony. What they found was God in the machine, a symbiosis of human-born and human-forged perfection. An avatar of the Omnissiah, divine and dreaming.

What they found was you, and you have suffered ever since. 

“Query: Are you well?” 

Your ears hear a heavy clanking-clicking metallic gait and garbled mechanical vocalizations like the grind of printer components. Could be anyone. But your neural nodes identify Laurintius and deny a probing attempt at wireless connection. It doesn’t matter that speechless, direct communication would be more expedient. You don’t want him in your head because he always starts poking and prodding, and then there’s no hiding from the constant stream of unsettling worship. “Most holy host-vessel god machine anointed one syncretic masterpiece-being,” on and on and on. You curl up on your side in bed and roll over to stare at the candles slowly melting into white, waxy puddles in their alcove. If you look the other way, there are steel pews. A polished floor. A red carpet rolled down the aisle.

Where there was once an altar, there is now a bed. Enormous and rounded rather than rectangular, the metal frame sits directly on the ground with purely decorative protrusions jutting from the exterior. The mattress is stiff and the sheets are all the same stark white, the entire thing meant to mirror the eerie skull inside a cog crest mounted on the wall. 

Where there was once an altar, there is now you. They come in droves seeking guidance you don’t have and wisdom you can’t fathom.

“I’m not god,” you’ve said more times than you can count. “Please listen to me. Please. I’m not.” 

“A riddle,” they say, and begin debating mathematical logic. “Determine: set of all deities that excludes Omnissiah? An empty set.”

Laurintius clatters closer. “Requesting access to your nodal pathways.” 

“Denied,” you mutter. 

He tries anyway. You roll over and glare at him when he runs up against your firewall. If he has a face under his hood and behind a mass of respirator apparatuses, glowing ocular sensors and coolant tubes, you suspect it doesn’t look apologetic. His faith requires the asking of questions and his personal proclivities permit the pushing of boundaries. God is a mystery to unravel and it’s his moral imperative to investigate. “Objective: medical scan,” he says innocently. His mechadendrites squirm in the air like metal serpents, each tipped with some grasping limb or vicious equipment meant for dismantling.

“You don’t need access to my nodes to run a medical scan,” you say.

“Improved efficiency, data yield.”

You run the scan yourself and send the results. Laurintius’ oculars, a spider-like arrangement of six cyan lights set in the metal mask of his face, flicker briefly as he checks the data. “Sleep deprivation. Stress hormones. Malnutrition,” he reads, the vox projector hooked directly into his throat crackling with outrage. “Hypothesis: faulty hibernation protocols impacted self-preservation instinct. Body systems interconnected. Disregard for flesh-components negatively impacts neural node function. Level of concern increasing.” He pauses when you roll over again, ignoring him. He says, only very slightly softer, “You are harming yourself.” 

You don’t move and you don’t speak. Laurintius stands there for a long time in silence. You can hear his internal cooling systems whirring loudly as his processors heat up in frantic contemplation. The slow, slithering approach of a mechadendrite makes no sound but your nodes detect movement behind you. The warning is the only reason you have time to react. Laurintius’ reflexes are faster. By the time you’ve turned around and scrambled upright, he’s already at the edge of the bed, metal tendril raised like a stinger and curled all the way around you, a direct interfacing knob poised at the nape of your neck. The port there, a silver aperture meant for maintenance set into your skin, just barely slams shut before he tries to force entry. You feel metal strike metal, a hiss of sparks. The knob bounces off your port’s shutter and scrapes uselessly across your skin.

Laurintius’ oculars dim and he steps back quickly. You don’t like to encourage his assertions of godhood, but you can’t help a petty jab. “That seemed like sacrilege,” you say. His mechadendrites flinch, retreating behind him like scolded dogs.

“Statement false,” he insists. “Intention: render aid.” 

“Please leave me alone.” 

Laurintius stares at you for an unsettlingly long moment in silence, and then he bows stiffly. You watch him walk back down the aisle, vanishing into the cavernous halls beyond the chapel. Too easy, you think. He never leaves without more of a fight. Just as he vanishes from range, a cluster of new familiar signatures register. 

A truly incomprehensible number of crew populate the Hephaesian, a ship so gargantuan it generates its own gravitational forces, but only a handful are permitted to interact with you directly. Most are exalted tech-priests but there are exceptions, and those very exceptions approach the chapel now. Their footsteps are lighter than Laurintius but louder when they move in perfect lockstep. There are ten of them. They file into the chapel single-file and fan out in two rows of five once they stand before you. Each kneels in unison. Each bows their head. Quiet prayers and shrill conversions of hymnal data into crunching, staticy audio fill the air. 

These are the skitarii—soldiers devoted to the Adeptus Mechanicus until death, red cloaks draped over patchwork bodies of flesh and steel. This was the team dispatched into the buried city where you slept for millennia. They were the ones who stumbled upon your stasis pod and, on Laurintius’ orders, activated the waking cycle. Their faces were the first ones you saw and their voices were the first ones you heard. It confounds the tech-priests of the Spira Mirabilis that it isn’t the most devout and enlightened of their order that you willingly invite into your presence but rather their lowly servants. Some have taken it as a test of faith while a less frustrating subset have begun to ruminate on what your behavior might mean. 

Laurintius is far more astute and pragmatic than the rest. He understands it’s a matter of simple preference: you like the skitarii. He’s more than willing to use that to his advantage. 

The first to lift his head is Unit AM/TZ-3B-Rubedo, Vanguard and squad leader. The sight of him without his helmet—the sight of flesh, however little—still startles you. He has a sickly, pallid complexion, green eyes framed by brown curls. His veins are prominent and discolored from combat stimulant use, blackish-indigo straining under the skin. His lower jaw and neck are a black synthetic material, segmented and flexible. It stifles his smile, limits it to his remaining upper lip, but you’re no less charmed than the first time you saw it.

“It is the greatest honor to stand before you,” Rubedo says, his voice only slightly modulated.

“It’s good to see you again, too,” you tell him.

The skitarii worship you, but they’re less stubborn than the tech-priests. They listen when you ask them to address you without honorifics and staggering, minute-long warbling binharic titles. They acquiesce when you beg them not to prostrate themselves on the floor whenever you make a request. You try not to think too much about the fact that this is by design. They were made this way, raised in the cult of the Mechanicus and forged for absolute obedience to their superiors. They are willing to humor you, at least. To pretend you’re not too sacred to touch. When you gesture for them to approach, they crowd around you like children gathered to hear a bedtime story. “Are you bored today? Can we bring you anything?” Rubedo asks, eyeing the stack of thick, yellowed tomes piled beside the bed. Historical texts, mostly. Ancient relics Laurintius provided to keep your mind off your misery. You haven’t opened even one of them yet.

“Not bored,” you admit. “Just sad.” 

The skitarii puzzle over your words. “Sad. Sad? Chemical response to distress. No danger detected.” 

“Like…” You try to come up with something comparable. They’ve all had emotional dampeners installed. “Like when you’re in battle, and your leg is injured. Something hits you hard enough to knock you down and a wire snaps, or your hydraulics are damaged.” 

“That triggers retaliation protocols,” Rubedo says.

“After that,” you insist. “After the battle’s over and you get back to the ship, and you realize you need repairs. It might be a while before you’ll see combat again.” They let out a collective trill of solemn understanding. 

“You were damaged?” a ranger asks, clutching the bed frame so hard that his metal fingers leave a dent. “What is responsible? We will hunt it.” 

You shake your head. “No damage. There are other things that can make someone sad.” 

Rubedo seats himself on the edge of the bed, offering his hand. His sleeve slides back to his elbow, revealing a sturdy limb of rigid armor plating atop digits with inhuman flexibility and articulation. It’s not flesh—it’s not even warm—but it’s a familiar shape. A palm to slot yours against, fingers to lace with yours. Slowly, he guides you into his lap. It doesn’t matter that it’s awkward to straddle his stiff codpiece and firm, metal thighs through the thick material of his fatigues. He holds you and no one else will. You rest your head against the skull crest emblazoned on his breastplate and listen to the chugging rhythm of life support systems and synthetic organs while his hand smooths over your head in soft, soothing motions. The other skitarii press in as close as they can, masks and respirators nuzzling against your legs.

“The Archmagos forwarded a concerning report,” he says gently. You take a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “I understand his methods may have caused additional distress, but he is trying to help.” 

You frown against his chest. “I don’t want his help.”

“If you tell him what is making you sad—”

“It’s everything, Rubedo,” you insist. “Everything makes me sad. I hate being stuck on this ship. I hate being treated like a specimen, or a reliquary. I hate the whole galaxy and what’s happened to it. Why are you always fighting something? Why is there war everywhere, all the time?”

“TACHYCARDIA DETECTED.” Your jaw is grasped, firmly but carefully, by knife-like fingers. Unit K-LW-105-Argyros crouches on your other side, his knee threatening to rip a hole in the mattress. He’s a Ruststalker, more machine than the rest of them, head enclosed in a gas mask and legs replaced with powerful digitigrade structures that make him loom over you. 

“Gently,” Rubedo reminds him. “Flesh bruises.” 

Argyros makes an unpleasant sound like a bad vox connection. “UNIT REQUESTING COMMAND.”

You smile sadly. Argyros strokes your cheek with the utmost caution, a careful caress with the dull back edge of his curved dagger-fingers. “I don’t have any commands for you, Argyros. I’m just having a bad day. I appreciate that you’re here.”

“Would you like it if we brought you meals instead of Laurintius?” Rubedo suggests. “Perhaps we could stay with you while you eat. Keep you company.”

“Aren’t you too busy for that?” 

He gives you that ghost of a half-smile, a sweet expression that makes your heart beat faster. “We have been retasked.”

“To me?” you ask, incredulous. “Isn’t that boring?” 

The skitarii make a simultaneous sound, incessant beeps and grating noises. Disagreement, you’re guessing. “No. Not boring. Never boring,” they all chatter at once, eager to have your attention. “Combat prowess will remain unaffected with regular sparring. New training regimen focused on defensive formations.” They’re probably getting rewired, you realize, converted into bodyguards who get a rush of reward chemicals for maintaining your safety. Selfishly, you don’t mind. You’d rather they remain here than die forgotten on some distant battlefield.

“I think I’d like that,” you say. 

They’re quiet suddenly. You look up and find Rubedo and Argyros staring at one another, probably having a conversation on a communication channel you aren’t privy to. Rubedo strokes the back of your head. Argyros’ head bows slightly in what looks like reluctance. 

“REQUESTING NODE ACCESS,” he says. 

You huff out a bitter laugh. “Is that why you’re here? Laurintius couldn’t get in so he asked you to try?” 

“REQUEST…DENIED?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Argyros. I really don’t want—”

You hear a muted click of metal prongs sliding firmly into metal slots, a catch mechanism securing. You look up at Rubedo with wide, betrayed eyes. You see just a twinge of guilt before it vanishes; quarantined wherever he banishes emotions he has no time to process, replaced by steady certainty. His hand slipped down to the nape of your neck when you weren’t paying attention, pushing something into your port. “Rubedo?” you say hoarsely. He’s given someone remote access. You feel your firewalls fizzling out. 

“Stating apology.” Laurintius' voice speaks directly into your head. “Deception necessary. Circumstances dire. It is not sacrilege if it deepens understanding.”

You bite back a sob. It’s not fair. You know he’s used the skitarii to nudge you whichever way he wants, watching through their eyes and listening through their ears, but he’s never been so direct before. You’re furious and you can’t do anything about it. You twist your fingers in the fabric of Rubedo’s cloak and he murmurs an apology, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Get out!” you cry. “I don’t want you there! I don’t trust you!” You’ve barely raised your hands to reach for the back of your neck when Argyros lunges, trapping both of your arms behind your back in an unshakable iron grip. “Rubedo, please, help me!” 

Rubedo cups your cheek with his hand. “I am helping you,” he says. “The Archmagos can heal you. Do not struggle.” 

You struggle as hard as you can. There’s no breaking out of Argyros’ grip but you can make Laurintius’ search more difficult, partitioning off parts of your mind from his probing searches and overclocking your nodes. It’s a dangerous, foolish thing to do—you feel feverish, your head aching and a trickle of blood dribbling from your nose. Argyros pleads with you to stop in a deafeningly shrill voice like an emergency alarm. Rubedo risks frying his nervous system when he makes a tentative connection, his presence cool and soothing in the back of your mind.

In a panic, Laurintius fumbles something. Trips the wrong nerve cluster, maybe. You have no idea what goes wrong but a bolt of searing, mind-numbing pleasure shoots down your spine and you’re driven directly into climax between the skitarii. 

Complete stillness and silence follow. You hide your face in Rubedo’s chest. You can just barely feel Laurintius plucking through your head slower and softer, checking for brain damage. Argyros is completely silent, like he just shut down in sheer terror. “Stating additional apology,” Laurintius says, sounding bewildered. “You are uninjured?” You’re still catching your breath. You nod weakly. You don’t want to think about the noise you made a second ago, or how you arched your back and bucked wildly against Rubedo’s codpiece. You feel overheated and tingly. “You are relaxed,” Laurintius says. His curious tone makes you sit up straighter in alarm. “That relaxed you immensely. Noting a sharp increase in serotonin and oxytocin.”

“No,” you say quickly. You try to move but Argyros is holding you even more tightly. Rubedo looks at you like he’s just glimpsed a miracle. “No, no, no, we’re not doing this. You can’t just—” 

“Hypothesis,” Laurintius says, sounding far too excited. “Copulation will improve mood, cooperativeness. Uploading test program now.” There’s one last moment of calm before the storm, oculars glittering limbs twitching as the skitarii download new instructions and battle plans. Then they’re on you.

The skitarii move with the same perfect coordination they use in battle, positioning themselves around you in a strategic formation. You’re caressed by dozens of hands all at once, over and under your clothes. The ones with sharp, weaponized digits use only their blunt palms while the ones with softer silicone hand sheaths have the privilege of accessing your more vulnerable flesh. Argyros frees up his hands by tying your arms with a grappling cable and undresses you swiftly with several extremely precise swipes of his claws. Your torn clothes are carefully folded and set aside like precious treasures, never permitted to touch the ground.

One of the rangers gropes your chest, flicking your nipples with his thumbs. Another caresses your thigh with long, caressing sweeps before his fingers dip between your legs and rub your sex hard and fast. All of them touch anything they can reach, whether that means fondling your ass or squeezing your hips. They tease you mercilessly, working you right up to the peak again with nothing but their devoted, relentless attention. Rubedo curls his fingers beneath your chin and you feel him establish a connection the moment your eyes meet. Laurintius gave him complete access. 

“Forgive me,” he implores you, an admission of guilt. He could blame this on the Archmagos if he really wanted to, could feign a complete loss of control, but that’s not what’s happened. He’s choosing this. Laurintius didn’t have to force anything. You feel him there, trespassing in your nodal network. You feel it like sparking heat and pleasure, a penetration that isn’t physically possible. Rubedo starts panting, organic engines rumbling faster. It might as well be sex; your body can’t tell the difference. He deliberately rubs against the same spot Laurintius stumbled across earlier, teasing it, whispering binharic that feels like electric shocks to the base of your spine.

His gaze strays down your bare, trembling body with half-lidded, shameful desire. Before you, flesh was weakness; merely the first stepping stone on the road to completion, never a place to linger. But you are more flesh than machine—your nodes depend on your organic body to run smoothly, seamlessly integrated and interdependent. 

Elsewhere, the Adeptus Mechanicus can believe what they want. Aboard the Hephaesian, flesh is sacred.

“DETECTING…” Argyros slots against your back, running hot with his internal fans on overdrive. His vox skips, sounds repeating. “F-F-FAVORABLE…HORMONAL SHIFT.” He nudges into the nodal network through a different backdoor and you shudder at the sudden sense of fullness. A sharp finger drags down your back between your shoulder blades. Laurintius is a pervasive, oppressive weight over everything, the engulfing caress of a much larger body curled around yours. Rubedo is warmth like licking, plaintive kisses. Argyros is frenzied. He finds your pleasure center, the nerve clusters that send signals of ecstatic bliss, and locks on. You cum and you can’t stop because he pounds into it with tireless, mechanical speed and precision. 

While the others fuck your mind, the skitarii continue to stimulate your body. They babble in static-laced whispers full of awe and desire. 

“So soft!”

“Flesh, all flesh. Astounding discovery. Flesh is wonderful.” 

“Is this forbidden? It must be forbidden. Anything as enticing as this…”

“It is a revelation. This is the will of the Omnissiah: complete and perfect merging.”

“The atavistic wed to the neoteric.”

“This is how all will worship, one day.” 

You can’t take any more. Argyros forces another orgasm and you sob, neither your organic brain nor your synthetic nodes able to handle all of the sensations coursing through your body. Argyros pulls out first, sloppy and sudden. You slump back against him, feeling raw and wrecked. Rubedo is far gentler. His withdrawal is a slow drag and your mind tries to hold onto him, overwhelmed and disoriented. It makes him groan, his lower body twitching with small, slight thrusts of his hips as a long-buried reflex briefly resurfaces. He presses his forehead against yours, hot breath and steam-like exhaust fanning across your face every time he exhales. Overexertion spreads like a virus through the open connection and all of the skitarii drop where they are at the same time. Your bed frame creaks in protest.

You’re just barely aware of Laurintius lurking in your mind while your eyelids flutter, muttering something about adjusting parameters and extending duration for maximum effect. Clumsily, you eject the data stick Rubedo shoved into your nape and throw it as hard as you can, uncaring of whether or not it shatters against the floor. You don’t have the strength or the mental bandwidth to be properly outraged or upset just yet so you let out a long breath and curl up in a tangle of metal limbs and synchronized pulses. 

Rubedo watches you drift off. His gaze is soft, half-lidded, utterly entranced by your fluttering lashes and how you keep trying to fight back to consciousness. Just as you teeter on the precipice of sleep, you hear a soft sigh and feel lips—half-organic, half-synthetic—press against yours. 

You can’t decide what’s worse—being an untouchable God, or being one that is all too easy to reach.

[escapetheslaughters]

Nobody Escapes the Slaughter!

Please read this...

Bloodmoon Memes W/O context

Silly Shenanigans

[This is an RP blog of the Bloodmoon twins - ASKS are welcome. Just be respectful... They can be portrayed as an AU of the TSAMS since we all know what happened. They have reclaimed nanites to eat/consume blood/meat/food. They have their own bodies with the ability to merge but prefer to be separated because it's double the chaos now. They know magic. DNI if you're sensitive to blood, vulgar language, suggestive shenanigans/phrases. Most of what is said IS SFW if now mildly suggestive at best.]

I am Grim. I am Reaper.

We are       🩸🌒Bloodmoon.🩸🌘

They own...

A bunch of red stained weapons (swords, daggers...)

A 2 year old black cat named Murder.

A 5 month old kitten named Mayhem.

A 4 month old borzois puppy named Cleaver.

A small blue isopod the size of a water bottle named Basher.

A tiny snake named Gore.

The boys have nanites to consume regular food and thanks to a nice Eclipse, they are not driven mad by bloodthirst.They are also learning magic. They still love blood and chaos itself. But they're TRYING to make friends.

The Bloodmoon twins consists of two individuals who are part of a whole.

Grim wears the blue outfit with swirl optics in which he may use to confuse and hypnotize his prey before eviscerating them. He is the more wild of the two, unhinged in volume of his voice and his actions. He tends to give into their cravings for blood. He is easily amused by the strangest of things. Bloody is stronger than Harvest and shorter. 7 ft tall, stocky/thick.

Reaper  wears all red and dons the pentagrams in his optics and on his chest. He is the control and often likes to plan attacks. He loves the thrill of the hunt. His cravings for blood are not as strong as his brother's but they are still present. He is the more reasonable (and sometimes lazy) of the two. 7.5 ft, slender.

Bloodmoon is 9ft tall, a perfect blend of the two. Their new body has 4 arms. The blend was done by @bumble-the-sun-bee

They live in a cabin in the middle of the woods roughly 20 miles away from the Plex.

Their family:

@animatronic-assistant They live with her as they have kidnapped liberated her from her Sun and Moon. She is Their Own(gf).

@eclipsen-smiles The Eclipse who helped fixed their code so they wouldn't be a slave to their code. This here is Father.

@thekillermaretwinz They adopted these two as their children.

@liminal---nightmare-aliza This is their Mother figure.

@malwaresilly An ally they now trust and were the first hunt they ever failed for the sake of making a friend instead. His is now seen as their Big Brother.

@multifandomcutie13 Astraia is their first human friend and they admire her strength and her choice of weapon. A chainsaw. (Their friendship is currently strained as Bloodmoon frightened her during an argument. They still care about her.)

This is the schematic of their home/the cabin.

[m3ntallyillr0se]

Something I’ve noticed in murder drones fandom is there are very limited resources for ocs…

So I’m going to make more-

Rn I’m working on different types of murder drones so that the serial numbers will be different so there will be 1 for every color of the rainbow so i had to choose some feature to make them specifically for the yellow (these were the wings and the nanite acid tails. I also need some suggestions on what i can change, rn I’ve got red and a concept for orange. You can use the design references as long as you don’t trace and give me credit (just don’t say that the base design was made by you no need to tag me 24/7 if you use it ^^)

(Btw each drone has different acids and one of them even has acid in a gas form)

Anyways here’s the red disassembly drones :3

(BTW THEY ARE NOT JUST NAKED AND BALD you can add those parts when you custom them to fit yourself :3)

More design stuff: