#file recovery process

[darksouls2yuri]

my 3ds sd card has become corrupted and idk how bc i always eject it before closing it and uhghghghuhhgh -_-

[airsigh]

just had my one-month check in at the eating disorder clinic where i told off the doctor for cutting my treatment short and not doing literally half of what was included in the treatment criteria. and they AGREED WITH ME!!!!!

[techcofinds]

[luveline]

Hi !!! Can I request something romantic between shy reader and spence? maybe he’s like trying to teacher her something and they’re alone? IDK WRITE WHATEVER U WANNA RIGHT ILL EAT IT UP REGARDLESS <3

Your stomach hurts and you need to pee, but you’re stuck. You’ve been trying to submit your virtual paperwork for the last two hours. Why have they made it this difficult? You’re beginning to wonder if you’re being hazed. 

Spencer told you it was easy. Well, he’d put a cup of tea on your desk (for which you hadn’t asked but gratefully accepted), seen you were starting your paperwork, and said, “I’ll see you for lunch in half an hour?” with a knowing smile. 

You’d smiled back. You want to be in the know with him, even if you’d needed a ten minute recovery period after he left to learn to breathe through your nose again. 

But it became clear after half an hour you wouldn’t be taking lunch, let alone joining him. Nervous sweat dampens your hands and the back of your shirt, and your face burns with heat —why is the office scorching? You’re in hell. 

You click another button, sure you’ve found the right process, but a yellow triangle appears with an exclamation mark inside. Function suppressed, it says.   

“Oh, good,” Spencer says, approaching from behind, a coffee. “I thought you stood me up. You’re struggling with the system?” 

“I wouldn’t say struggling.” 

“You don’t need any help, then?” 

“Please,” you say softly, worried someone else will hear you. You don’t want anyone in the team nor the unit to realise how inept you are. It’s bad enough that Spencer’s cottoned on. “I can’t get it to work.”

“I was kidding,” he says, smiling tentatively at you. “Let me get my chair.” 

Spencer tortures you sitting beside you, knee to knee and arm over your arm as he guides your mouse to the right page, then the correct paperclip. His watch falls down his wrist and brushes your skin with each direction, spurring chills all over. “You’re pretty much done,” he says. 

“I don’t know why I was so confused,” you say bashfully. 

“Because it’s a confusing system.” He smells like warm vanilla. You wish you could ask him about it, but you’ve a job to talk this close to him. 

“Thank you for helping.” 

He clicks through the last part of your file to check for any missing paperclips before he sends it off. “You’re welcome.” Then, because he secretly hates you, he takes your arm into his hand with achingly careful fingers. “Are you cold?” He rubs at your goosebumps. He has really nice hands, with strong veins. He moves purposefully. 

Another rush of goosebumps down your arm. “Are you okay?” he asks, his eyebrows tugged together worriedly. 

“I’m just,” —mortified— “embarrassed about the paperwork. I didn’t know there would be this many online responsibilities involved, I would’ve looked them up.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise as your sentence ends. You’d mangled ‘looked them up’, said it breathless as his hand curled around your fingers. 

“Don’t worry about all of that. You can always ask me for help. Right? I sit right there.” He points to his desk. “Did you forget?”

Something about his tone suggests that he already knows you didn’t forget, but he takes your thank you gracefully, and continues pretending you’re cold rather than physically affected by his touch. He’s nice like that. 

“Here, in case you’re still cold,” he says, too casual, draping his suit jacket over your shoulders.

Not that nice. 

[andrevasims]

TS2 Death Mods

There are some lists like this out there, but none were quite what I had in mind, which was mods that make sims more of a danger to each other, rather than a more dangerous environment or being a danger to themselves.

Kill Visiting Playables - Playable sims can die as visitors to another household

Disease Mod - Recovery points (how fast a sim recovers from disease) are easier for sims to lose and more challenging to accumulate; The "Advanced" version of the mod enables the gain/loss of recovery points and disease markers (left on the tile where a sim expressed a symptom that can infect other sims) to also happen on community lots, instead of only the sim's home lot

Frequent Disease Processing - Severity of disease changes every single cycle (~1 hour) instead of every six cycles (~9 hours)

Deadly Zombies - New zombie interaction "Eat" where if they win the fight, the other sim dies and their hunger is filled

Deadly Werewolves - New werewolf interaction "Ravage" where if they win the fight, the other sim dies and their hunger is filled

Deadly Neck Bite - New vampire interaction "Deadly Neck Bite" where the other sim dies after being bitten and their hunger is filled

Thunderbolt - Either the original PandoraSims version (in the "spells_full" zip folder) or the version edited by MidgeTheTree (requires Midge's main "witchspellsmod" file); New evil witch spell "Thunderbolt" that kills the targeted sim with a lightning strike

NOTE: You have to edit the ingredients BCON in the mod package via SimPE to adjust the amount of required reagents for casting the spell, otherwise the spell needs 12 Viper Essence, 12 Eye of Newt, 12 Dragon Scales, and 12 Mystic Dust

Crate of Throwing Axes - Exactly what it sounds like; Choose a target sim, and they get an axe in the head (and death). Buyable object under Misc. > Misc.

[p0orbaby]

Could you write something about reader having surgery? Leah worrying about her & getting super stressed out x

-

Leah’s pacing. Of course she is. She’s wearing the trainers that squeak on the hospital floor, the ones you begged her to throw away three months ago. “They’ve got character,” she said then, like that was a reasonable argument for keeping footwear that sounded like an off-brand comedy gag every time she took a step. Now, the sound feels like a metronome for her anxiety.

She’s also muttering under her breath, something about waiting rooms being designed to drive people mad. “Why is there always a random fish tank?” she asks no one in particular, gesturing at the gurgling monstrosity in the corner. “Like, is that meant to be calming? Watching a clownfish swim into a plastic castle?”

Kim, who you bullied into babysitting Leah while you’re in surgery, hums noncommittally and sips her tea. It’s the worst thing she could’ve done because it prompts Leah to snap, “You’re too calm. Why are you so calm?”

“Because it’s a routine procedure,” Kim replies, her tone so even it borders on condescending. “She’ll be fine, Leah”

But Leah doesn’t look convinced. She crosses her arms, leans against the wall, then decides against it and resumes pacing. “Routine doesn’t mean risk-free,” she mutters. “What if they mix up her file with someone else’s? What if they give her a kidney transplant instead of fixing her knee?”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” Kim asks, barely suppressing a laugh.

Leah whirls around. “Anything’s possible, Kim. Hospitals are chaos. I’ve read articles”

Kim just shakes her head and goes back to scrolling her phone, clearly regretting agreeing to this.

Leah’s still fidgeting when the surgeon finally appears. The man is smiling, calm and professional, but she doesn’t let her guard down. Not even when he says, “The operation went smoothly. She’s in recovery now”

“Define smoothly,” Leah demands, squinting at him like he’s lying. “No complications? No close calls? You didn’t drop anything inside her, did you?”

“Leah!” Kim hisses, mortified.

The surgeon, to his credit, only blinks. “She’s fine,” he repeats, clearly accustomed to this brand of hysteria. “You can see her shortly”

Leah doesn’t wait. She marches down the hall like she’s storming the pitch, the squeaking of her trainers echoing behind her.

When she reaches your room, you’re half-conscious, propped up in bed with a silly-looking hospital gown that does nothing for your dignity. Your eyes flutter open at the sound of her trainers, and you manage a groggy smile.

“You’re here,” you mumble, your voice sluggish from the anaesthetic.

“Of course I’m here,” Leah says, pulling a chair up to your bedside. “How do you feel? Do you need water? Ice? A lawyer in case something went wrong?”

You blink at her, too out of it to process her rambling. “I think they gave me morphine. I feel amazing”

Leah exhales sharply, her hands twitching like she wants to touch you but isn’t sure where. “Good. That’s good. You look… fine. A bit pale. But fine”

“Thanks,” you slur. “You look sexy”

She finally smiles, though it’s small and a little wobbly. “You scared the hell out of me, you know”

You try to reach for her hand but miss by a mile. “Sorry. Love you”

Her expression softens, and she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “Love you too. Just… don’t ever make me do this again, yeah?”

“No promises,” you mumble, already drifting back to sleep.

Leah stays by your side the entire time, even when the nurse comes in and politely asks her to stop squeaking her trainers against the floor.

[writing-for-life]

Fanfic writers, take a breath…

I’ve seen many posts over the last week in which NG-property-adjacent fanfic writers stated they’ll delete all their fics, from either Tumblr, Ao3 or both. And my heart honestly broke a little.

I’ll preface this with: I’m not telling anyone how to process their grief, anger and disappointment, and these are valid decisions. But I’d urge people to at least take a moment before they hit the nuclear option and delete everything without any chance of recovery.

These works come from your minds, derivative of (or inspired by) another work or not. You wrote them, not NG. They are your creative brainchild. You created a world that was yours.

Heck, the majority of fanfics (especially AUs) are so far removed from the original works that you could probably file the serial numbers off and turn them into OC fics, because that’s what they often are anyway if you look very closely.

If you can’t look at them right now without feeling bad, at least make sure you have saved them someplace other than Tumblr or Ao3. Lock those files away, let them rest. Now or forever. But I’d strongly suggest never to delete your creative works because the person who inspired them is horrible. Again: These works came from your minds, not his. And once they’re gone, that’s it.

You don’t need to make any decision right now, when everything is so fresh. I’m sort of old and from a generation that didn’t grow up under the premise of, “post about it or it didn’t happen.” Don’t let peer pressure to do “the right thing” get the better of you. You have time. You can make these decisions without rushing into them. Away from online spaces…

[immodestly-marina]

Hey there!

I am a huge Sam girl and I was hoping you could write a nice fix for us wherein the reader gets badly hurt on a hunt but doesn't tell the boys and later passes out on Sam in the bunker. That's when they find out and both the boys panic especially Sam but take good care of her to get her to recovery. Reader recovers physically but mentally she's got a bit disturbed and gets a bad panic attack but Sam helps her through it as well and then it's all fluff in the end maybe? Pretty please! Also, I love your account!

A/n: This is literally so cute, I’ve actually thought about this before! There have been a few times where I’ve been very close to fainting, so I based this off of my own experiences. Thanks for the idea, I hope you enjoy! Also, for the sake of this imagine/os, Sam’s room is near the library because my dumbass forgot he sleeps in a whole separate hall lol.

Warnings: Fainting, mentions of slight head trauma, worried Sam, Sam daydreaming about you in his bed (If you really squint)

Funnily enough, Dean was the first to notice something was wrong. The way you slowly swayed side to side when standing, before bracing yourself on the countertop you stood by. His eyebrows furrowed as he watched you, nonetheless, he continued to shove another handful of frosted flakes into his mouth.

It wasn’t until Sam entered the room that you began to feel really spaced out. He laid a file and some newspaper clippings on the table in front of Dean, turning to you to go over new information about your current hunt. 

“I think we might be dealing with a Berserker,” He stated, opening the folder to further explain.

Dean set his box of cereal down, brushing the crumbs off his hands. “Fantastic, because I know exactly what that is.” he replied sarcastically, Sam rolled his eyes and held up his hand as if to say Hold on, I’m getting to that.

You stepped away from the counter, standing closer to Sam as he proceeded to explain. You felt nauseous, opting to stay silent as you felt talking would only make it worse. As he went on, you felt a head rush creep up on you, your vision going blurry before becoming completely clouded.

Dean watched you rock to the side trying to keep your balance, again.

You turned your head, pretending you were able to actually see Sam when you turned to look at him. He hadn’t yet clued in to the near blank expression on your face, not until he turned to face you as well.

Your face went white as his voice began to sound muffled, you could almost make out his faint, “Y’okay there, hun?”

You blinked, barely making out a response before stumbling forward and dropping in his arms, Sam quickly catching and holding your limp body upright against him with a small stumble.

“Woah, hey- hey!” Dean jumps up from his seat to grab something, anything, really. He spins and paces around the floor, realizing now that he’s up and about… he has no idea what the fuck he’s looking for. Sam turns his head, frantically looking at him before rolling his eyes. “Anything with salt or sugar, Dean.”

Dean speed walked around to find something to get your blood sugar up, while Sam carefully lifted you up and carried you to his bed. It’s the nearest one, he thought, might as well lie her down as quickly as possible, that’s all. He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn’t get some form of butterflies at the thought of you sleeping in his bed, but that’s beside the point.

He laid you down as gently as he could, trying not to fall on top of you out of nervousness in the process. He sighed, brushing his hair back from his face before shaking out his blanket and laying it over you.

You stirred a little bit before waking, slowly blinking your eyes open to find yourself in bed. Sam stepped into the room with a glass of water, setting it down on the small table beside the bed next to a bowl of dry frosted flakes and extreme cheddar Goldfish (courtesy of Dean Winchester). You rub your eyes with your knuckles, feeling your head pound until Sam flicks off the light.

“Better?” He sighs a little, you nod and wince.

“What happened today?” Sam’s voice was soft and quiet as he knelt down beside you, his hands resting on the edge of the bed. You bring your fingers to the bridge of your nose, pinching it lightly to relieve the pain in your head. Sam gave you a pained look before reaching his hand up to feel your forehead, which was a tad warmer than it normally should be.

“Whatever that… thing was, when it threw me, I must’ve hit my head harder then I thought.” You sigh, “I threw up when we got back, ‘been dizzy since we lost it in the woods.” He shakes his head, sighing.

“Why didn’t you say something?” He rested his hand on your knee, running his thumb back and forth ever so slightly. A blush creeped it’s way across your cheeks, his touch sending butterflies straight to your stomach. You hope he doesn’t notice.

You hastily shake your head, “I didn’t wanna worry you guys, or…” Your hands tangle back into your hair to massage your scalp a little. “I ‘dunno, bother you…?”

He chuckles at that. “How would that be a bother?” You scoff, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I ‘dunno, sometimes I just feel in the way, I guess.”

Sam tilts his head before shaking it softly, hand moving to take hold of yours. “You’re not in the way. Not at all.” He frowns a little at your way of thinking. He knows you don’t mean to feel so negative, but he feels bad knowing they may have made you feel that way.

“If we, or I, ever made you feel that way, I am so, so sorry.” You lazily nod, looking down.

He tilts his head down, moving lower to find your eyes. He grins when that pulls a giggle out of you, “I promise you, ‘kay?” He says through a chuckle. You nod your head with a little more enthusiasm, though still trying to avoid any further pain in your head.

“Thanks, Sammy…” You address him by his nickname for the first time, which was always said to be reserved for Dean, and Dean only. Instead of protesting, Sam simply brushes the hair from your eyes, smiling sweetly. “Of course, darlin’ ” he whispers before standing up.

“You wanna come out and laze in the library for a bit, or do you wanna sleep in here?” Sam secretly hoped you’d pick the latter, as he was just fine with you sleeping in his room, and maybe even sharing a bed with him for the night. Just in case you need help during the night, of course.

You hesitate to answer, your injury somehow giving you the confidence to ask: “Can I do both…?”

Sam quickly nods his head. “Yeah!” He clears his throat, “Yeah, that’s fine,” He watches the smirk appear on your face, you find his caring and somewhat nervous demenour sweet. You nod in response.

He helps you to stand, guiding you back to the library. You slump into the seat, all of you continuing your prior conversation (much more quietly, as it’s highly possible it’s a concussion you’re dealing with). Dean chucks a pair of sunglasses at you after you complain about the bright room for the third time, and you all sit around each other, cracking jokes the rest of the night when you should be focused on research. Sam is much more protective of you for the next little while during your recovery, and neither of them allow you to join them for this hunt until you feel better again.

You’ve never felt more cared for than you do right now, with them. You’ve never felt more at home.

[professorlaytonarchive]

THE ORIGINAL DEATHLY MIRROR HAS BEEN FOUND.

This is not a drill. All 6 chapters of MotDM's original version are found and playable through emulation right now, thanks to the brilliant folks over at KeitaiWiki!

Now, remember this is the original version, not the ReMix, and the whole thing is in Japanese (yes, we're working on a translation) - but this is an amazing find for several reasons.

One, of course, is preservation. Having this game accessible and available is a fantastic thing for a multitude of reasons I don't feel the need to explain here.

Two, it's amazing news for our remake, too. There were a few missing pieces that we were not sure what to do about. That worry has been solved entirely, and all of these things can now be incorporated into the remake. Like what, you may ask?

For starters, there's 15 new puzzles that we can now localise and incorporate. Some are a bit more difficult to work with (there's a few based on specific uses of Japanese grammar), but we feel confident we'll be able to deliver fun and interesting interpretations of these new puzzles. For those of you keeping count, yes, that ups the minimum total of new puzzles in our remake to 60.

Another thing we're very happy to have recovered is the minigames, and the diary entries they reward you. There's one minigame in Chapters 1-3, and another in Chapters 4-6, for which we did not have any gameplay, assets, or even rules. While the loss of the second mingame could have been overcome by simply giving the first minigame more levels, the diary entries they reward you would have needed a lot more work and imagination, with our writers having to try to create new entries that would follow the original vision. This is now no longer an issue, and we can bring the original vision for these diary entries into the remake as they are.

On top of that, there were a few characterisations and storylines that were different between the original and the remix, where we would have had to pick the remix version by default, because the back half of the original was missing - this recovery gives us far more wiggle room to combine and reconcile these versions and make this game the most interesting version of itself. (Also, at the back end, having access to the original assets makes our recreation department very, very happy.)

So, all in all, a fantastic morning for the Layton fandom!

And then, what? Well, it might be a bit quiet on the update side of things for the time being, given that our job right now is to translate and localise about a million different things - and that just isn't a super interesting process to be sharing. We may have more to tell you once we've unpacked and analysed the files (we've only just got our hands on them, that's how fast this whole thing has gone), and we definitely have some other fun stuff we're working on that we can't wait to share, but after this massive update (maybe the biggest we'll ever do, because, wow), we'll need some time to work.

So for now, keep on keeping on, keep an eye on this subreddit and our youtube channel, and go check out the incredible work KeitaiWiki is doing. This whole thing, from the beginning, would not have been possible without them. (Seriously - they've been with us since the start of it all.)

Thank you.

-Nordic

from Team Enigma and Team Professor Layton Archive

[sayruq]

Immediate international action must be taken to investigate the hundreds of mass and random graves in the Gaza Strip containing the bodies of thousands of Palestinian victims since the start of Israel’s genocide, ongoing since 7 October 2023. Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor field teams have closely observed the recovery of hundreds of dead bodies from these mass graves, some of which were found in the courtyards of different Gaza Strip hospitals. The significant number of graves and bodies is concerning and calls for rapid international action, which should include the immediate creation of an independent international investigation committee to look into the circumstances surrounding the creation of these graves and the deaths of the victims buried in them. This is especially important given that a large number of the victims were directly subjected to premeditated murder and arbitrary and extrajudicial executions while handcuffed. A technical committee of experts is needed to investigate the burial circumstances and determine the cause of death of the victims that have been recovered. Additionally, a system for future identification ofdeceased victims’ identities must be developed.

The Euro-Med Monitor field teams previously documented the recovery of dozens of bodies from the mass graves in Al-Shifa Medical Complex’s courtyards, belonging to handcuffed victims, otherindividuals who were wounded but not provided withmedical care, and those who were executed despite their health conditions. The victims’ decomposing bodies were found in several places, with some having been run over by Israeli bulldozers which left their bodies torn into pieces. The presence of urinary catheters or splints, whichwere found to be still attached to some of the dead patients’ bodies during the exhumation process, as well as medical files that were buried with them in Al-Shifa Medical Complex, confirm the execution of ill and injured people. Due to the extended period of time in which the bodies were left in the mass graves—as Israeli forces had impeded their recovery for the past few months—most of the bodies were in a state of decomposition when recovered. Some of the corpses had also evidently been mauled by cats and dogs. Dr Moatasem Saeed Salah, a member of the Ministry of Health’s emergency committee, told Euro-MedMonitor that after the withdrawal of Israeli forces, 30 bodies were found to have been buried in two makeshift cemeteries in Al-Shifa Medical Complexduring the Israeli siege of the medical facility. One of these cemeteries was in front of the reception and emergency department, and the second was in front of the industrial department. Salah said that only 14 of the victims had been successfully identified, with the rest being patients or injured individuals who had been receiving treatment in the hospital.

[vergess]

Please, please explain how to install and use linux like I'm 5 years old. I'm so sick of windows adding AI and other bullshit to my already struggling elderly laptop but I'm really not good with computers at all so I have no idea where to start with Linux.

Okay, so, I'm going to break this down into steps I would give the average tumblr user first, and then if any of them are confusing or use words you don't understand, ask me and I'll explain that step in greater detail.

Step 0) BACK. UP. YOUR. SHIT.

NEVER EVER EVER CHANGE YOUR OPERATING SYSTEM WITHOUT A COMPLETE BACKUP OF ALL YOUR FILES.

Step 1) Learn your machine. You need to know:

How much RAM you have

If your processor is 32 or 64 bit

How big your hard drive is

On windows, you can find out all of this by going to the start menu, typing "about" and opening the first result on your system instead of the internet.

For additional instructions, visit this page.

Step 2) Pick your Linux.

There's like 10,000 kinds of Linux, each tailored to particular functions that the end-user (that is you!) might want to have. The sheer amount is very daunting, so first I'm going to give my suggestions, then I'll explain how to pick for yourself.

For Mac users, I suggest Kubuntu. For windows users, I suggest Mint Cinnamon. If your laptop is really REALLY old, I recommend Sparky Stable, which is the lightest weight Linux I would ever suggest for a new user. In every case, download the version suited to your processor (32 bit can be labelled "x86" or "32 bit"; 64 bit is always labelled "64 bit").

If you want to try a different type of linux, you'll need to make sure your laptop meets the "minimum specs" or "system requirements." These numbers tell you how much RAM, processor and hard drive space the linux will use. (That's why you needed those numbers at the beginning.)

Step 3) Collect your supplies. You're going to need:

An ISO burning program compatible with your current system, like Balena Etcher.

A copy of the ISO file for the Linux you want to use.

Your laptop.

An 8gb or larger USB flash drive.

Step 3) Make a bootable USB drive

Install Balena Etcher, hitting "okay" and "next" when prompted. Last I checked, Etcher doesn't have adware attached, so you can just hit next every time.

Plug your USB drive into the laptop.

Open Etcher.

Click "flash from file" and open the ISO file with your Linux on it.

Click "Select target" and open the USB drive location. Hit the "flash" button. This will start writing all the linux installer data to your flash drive. Depending on the speed of your machine, this could take as long as 10 minutes, but shouldn't be much longer.

Step 4) Boot to the USB drive

This is, in my opinion, the trickiest step for a lot of people who don't do "computer stuff." Fortunately, in a rare act of good will, Windows 10 made this process a lot easier.

All you'll need to do is go to settings, then recovery, then advanced startup and pick the button labelled "use a device."

This tutorial has images showing where each of those is located. It's considered an "advanced setting" so you may get a spooky popup warning you that you could "harm your system by making changes" but we're not doing anything potentially harmful so you can ignore that if you get it.

Step 5) Try out linux on the flash drive first.

Linux installs using a cool little test version of itself that you can play around in. You won't be able to make changes or save settings, but you can explore a bit and see if the interface is to your liking. If it's hideous or hard to navigate, simply pick a new linux version to download, and repeat the "make a bootable USB" step for it.

Step 6) Actually install that sucker

This step varies from version to version, but the first part should be the same across the board: on the desktop, there should be a shortcut that says something like "install now." Double click it.

Follow the instructions your specific linux version gives you. When in doubt, pick the default, with one exception:

If it asks you to encrypt your drive say no. That's a more advanced feature that can really fuck your shit up down the road if you don't know how to handle it.

At some point you're going to get a scary looking warning that says 1 of 2 things. Either:

Install Linux alongside Windows, or

Format harddrive to delete all data

That first option will let you do what is called "dual booting." From then on, your computer will ask every time you turn it on whether you want Windows or Linux.

The second option will nuke Windows from orbit, leaving only linux behind.

The install process is slower the larger your chosen version is, but I've never seen it take more than half an hour. During that time, most linux versions will have a little slideshow of the features and layout of common settings that you can read or ignore as you prefer.

Step 7) Boot to your sexy new Linux device.

If you're dual booting, use the arrow keys and enter key to select your linux version from the new boot menu, called GRUB.

If you've only got linux, turn the computer on as normal and linux will boot up immediately.

Bonus Step: Copy Pasting some code

In your new start menu, look for an application called "terminal" or "terminal emulator." Open that up, and you will be presented with an intense looking (but actually very harmless) text command area.

Now, open up your web browser (firefox comes pre-installed on most!), and search the phrase "what to do after installing [linux version you picked]"

You're looking for a website called "It's FOSS." Here's a link to their page on Mint. This site has lots and lots of snippets of little text commands you can experiment with to learn how that functionality works!

Or, if you don't want to fuck with the terminal at all (fair enough!) then instead of "terminal" look for something called "software manager."

This is sort of like an app store for linux; you can install all kinds of programs directly from there without needing to go to the website of the program itself!

[weebsinstash]

something that I think would be, truly one of the worst things about the yandere Batfamily really truly is their power to make any and every problem you've ever had completely go away in no time at all

it can be such an awful feeling to see that you struggled in vain with something that was nothing at all to someone else. You could have significant issues that have followed you all your life and have had traumatic impacting effects on you and these people could come in and sweep that all away. Student loans you've been paying off for years, if not a fraction of your lifespan, still burying you in debt? We are talking fucking decimal points on the scale of Bruce Wayne's wealth. That bad leg from an old work injury? Let's grab you one of the best doctors in Gotham, if not the entire world, fuck, we may even get you a doctor or medicine that isn't even human-made! Y'all want a magic leg? We know this chick who can speak backwards, you want a magically healed leg?

Crippling loneliness? Eternal sunshine and objectively best Robin Dick Grayson is here to brighten your entire world since he knows what it can feel like to be hurting and alone and he's literally like the heart and soul of the entire manor besides Alfred

Chronic pain, an undiagnosed disability, or maybe you're not confident in your fitness? Jason has extensive knowledge of injury recovery, physical therapy, and overall knowledge about human biology and musculature and how everything correlates

Family issues? Daddy issues? Let Resident Troubled Kid Expert Alfred Pennyworth be your new grandpa. He's dealt with more than one temperamental snappy individual, and he'll use his patience, experience, and wit to wear down all your stress and hostility. It's hard to keep being cruel to someone who's nothing but kind to you, and he has plenty of patience and delicious baked treats to hold out until you give in

Honestly just the fact most of them are so fucking young would get under my skin. You could be approaching your 30s and be sitting here at the Wayne family dinner table as their weird sister/mom/girlfriend/whatever and being all "I've just always had these struggles my entire life, I dont know what's wrong with me, I feel like I can't control how I act or feel and I hate it" and someone like Tim who depending on the source material and where you are on the timeline is a literal teenager with extensive knowledge of criminals and psychology is just over here, "oh, that? You have chronic childhood trauma, recurring resurfacing conflict related ptsd, severe abandonment issues, emotional regulation problems that are probably biological, and also you probably have autism, and there's nothing wrong with any of that :)" and then he turns to Bruce and starts talking about how his school is taking a trip abroad to Greece while you sit there processing that everyone around the table has extensively psychologically evaluated you and you probably have your own file on the Batcomputer (you do. It's excessive.)

It's just. The psychology of having all these problems you've struggled with be wiped away by someone else like it's nothing and how, that can result in making someone feel all the more worthless and helpless. Oh, Bruce was able to just make all your problems disappear? Clearly YOU weren't trying hard enough. Tim is able to suss out what's wrong with you? Well YOU'RE the dysfunctional idiot who was born wrong, and YOU were the one choosing the wrong doctors. You're watching all these young teenagers or young adults be vigilantes and travel the world and learn multiple languages and you're like. Normal guy Steve from the grocery store. You know? They take control of your life and make you feel like a side character in it, because everything you do is now attached to them, and all of them and all of their adventures are so... spectacular

And really, someone with a meaner heart, and maybe someone more blunt like, say, Damian, could perhaps come in and make some comment, "see? This is why you needed our assistance in caring for you" and what are you gonna do, NOT act like they basically fixed your entire life in less than a year's time, with the one objection of kidnapping and imprisonment? You're just over here, "um yeah, actually, I'm an adult and I can take care of myself, you don't need to TAKE CARE OF ME???" meanwhile Bruce and Alfred are exchanging knowing looks while you speak as if the old butler hadn't needed to help you call your doctor and other important urgent matters because being on the phone with strangers gave you such intense anxiety. Ok yes sure honey you are a lovely functional adult and your brain is big and beautiful and perfect 🥰 now shut up about going to live back home on your own, go play Xbox with your new brothers or go bake something with Grandpa while the world's greatest detective sits down in the Batcave using the Batcomputer to track down and "have a friendly chat" with that one childhood teacher that gave you that one really specific trauma-

[imaredshirt]

Post Weirdmageddon, Stanley continues to recover his memories. It's a gradual process, one that he sometimes gets frustrated with, but he's surrounded with a support system of friends and family that are more than happy to help.

Every so often, Stanford checks in with Fiddleford, who's a few steps ahead of Stanley in the memory recovery process and is an invaluable resource of knowledge and helpful tips. The fact that he invented the memory gun also helps, of course, and although he won't ever rebuild the thing, he has been studying the old one and just how it affects the mind.

During these calls between old friends/colleagues, Fiddleford will casually ask after Stanley's progress and general wellbeing, and Stanford will relay a summary of Stanley's most recent recovered memories.

One day over the phone, Fiddleford says, "So we know Stanley's recovered much of his childhood memories, some of his early twenties, and he's able to recall quite a bit of the past several years. Has he, ah, mentioned anything 'bout his time in the '80s? When he first started runnin the Mystery Shack and workin on the portal?"

"Not that I know of," Stanford answers. "I'll ask the kids. If he's mentioned anything to them, then Dipper's already added it to his notes." He frowns. "Should we be worried that he hasn't recalled anything from that period in his life, yet?"

"No, no," Fiddleford says. "At least, I don't think so. This all seems to be a sort of non-linear recovery process. Sorta like a stack o' cards that's fallen on the floor all mixed up and on top of each other, and he's pickin up the ones on the top layer, completely outta order. For all we know, this could be the card he picks up last." He pauses and clears his throat. "But if he does start mentioning anythin from that time - anythin at all from events to sensory memories or, uh, people - you be sure to let me know. I'd like to add it to my notes."

He sounds almost too casual. Stanford doesn't want to doubt his friend after all this time, but he vividly remembers what Fiddleford sounds like when he's trying to be sneaky, and he sounds like it right now. So much as he doesn't want to be, Stanford's suspicious.

He's just not quite sure what to be suspicious of.

He files the suspicion away for later. "You got it, old buddy."

"Well alrighty then! I'll call again tomorrow to check on today's progress. And why don't you order him an egg and sausage omelet from Greasy's? The one with all that cheese on top - but no mushrooms. He hates those. His favorite foods might jog his memories a bit."

Stanford blinks. "We were actually thinking of doing that. But how do you -?"

Fiddleford hangs up.

Stanford's still blinking at the phone, frowning, when Stanley walks up behind him.

"Hey, who was that?" Stanley asks. "Why do you look like someone just gave you a math problem you can't solve?"

"There are very few of those left in the universe," Stanford says, only half joking, and smiles when Stanley rolls his eyes, chuckling.

"Yeah, yeah, my brother the genius - whatever. Look, since you're on the phone already, why dontcha call up Fidds and tell him to pick up some pizza. If the kids are hungry, then you know I'm starving."

"Alright, but no broccoli pizza this time, I --" Stanford freezes. "Wait. Fidds?"

"Yeah, he's not in the shack or out back, so he's gotta be out in town, right?"

There's only one person that "Fidds" can be, but Stanford hasn't heard anyone use Fiddleford's nickname since college. He raises an eyebrow at Stanley, who's relaxing back in his recliner.

"Fidds, Stanley?"

"Yeah," Stanley says, raising an eyebrow back at his brother. "You know, your nerdy buddy? Scrawny guy with an accent? Helped me out with the portal right after you got stuck in it--"

"What?" Stanford's never heard about this. From either of them.

Stanley goes on, "Can't fight off a gnome to save his life but builds a giant crazy gnome robot anyway - whaat? Why're you looking at me like that?" Stanley sits up and his confusion becomes anger, almost startling Stanford out of his shocked state. "What, now that I'm getting all these memories back, you're uncomfortable?"

Stanford has no idea what he's talking about. "What? Uncomfortable with what?"

"With your college buddy shacking up with your twin brother," Stanley snaps. "We've been together for years. Maybe you should get over it, huh?"

"Get over it?" Stanford's reeling. Fiddleford's strangeness suddenly makes sense. "Stanley, I would never - I would accept you however you - I'm not straight, either, you know, and - wait." He holds up one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. "Before we even get into that - WHAT?"

Stanley blinks. "What??"

"You - you and - when did you-" Stanford throws his hands in the air. "He doesn't live here!"

"What?" Stanley snorts. "Yeah he does. I told him to move in."

"When?"

"Back in the '80s," Stanley says. "I just started remembering this morning. Where's be been, anyway? Why hasn't he been doing nerdy shit with you in the lab lately?"

Stanford's leaning against the sofa's armrest, mind racing. He answers distractedly, "We haven't been in the lab together since before you came to Gravity Falls, Stanley."

"Bull. You expect me to believe you two aren't cooking up some science project already?"

"Stanley..."

"What," Stanley says. Then he grins. "Are you the one with messed up memories now or what? Jeez, I got a better memory than my genius brother - and I've been hit with the memory gun twice!"

"Twice?" Stanford turns a sharp look on his brother. "What do you mean, twice?"

"Yeah. That one time when you used it on me, and then back in the '90s when Fidds . . ."

Stanley trails off. He blinks and then frowns, gaze falling to the floor as he mutters, "Back when Fidds . . . when he used it on me the first time, and. . ."

Realization dawns on them both at once, and Stanley looks at Stanford with an odd mix of emotions.

"Stanley," Stanford says in an effort to calm him. "What exactly do you remember of-"

"Who cares!" Stanley jumps to his feet, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "He used that thing on me! When I told him not to - when I asked - begged -" Stanley punches the wall and glares at the splinters littering his knuckles. His voice is shaking. "After everything we went through - he just took off 'cause he was, what, scared? Do you have any idea how much I've forgotten? Who knows if I'm gonna remember any of it? I didn't want him to leave! And after he did and used the gun, I - I was so broken and angry I didn't know why, couldn't remember why--"

With a growl, Stanley grabs the car keys from the little bowl by the TV and stomps towards the front door. "Get in the car. I've got a bone to pick with your old college buddy."

Stanford grabs his journal and hurries after his brother, calling for the kids as they head to the car. They're all likely going to be at Fiddleford's new mansion for some time.

He certainly has a bit of explaining to do.

[stellaestra]

I look into the spaces in-between in search of you (I miss you more than anything)

pairing: tim drake/mc [reader] author's note: old ideas from high school for me to write excerpts about as per usual and tim's my muse to explore these ideas on unless stated otherwise, if you see this posted on ao3, yes that is me too dw

this is unfortunately very self-indulgent hehe <3 mb babes p.s. this cld be taken as both ways? romantic? platonic? take your pick lol

word count: 1511 words

cw: um, mentions of injury? unedited // no beta read, we'll die like men here

---

It had been days since the last time Tim had slept ever since he found footage of someone that seemed eerily familiar to you, clad in a bright red jacket that was practically your signature back then. It was one of your favourite jackets after all.

He was getting a little too frantic and was rather adamant about them being you. He wanted to prove to everyone that you weren't dead but alive. 

He would delay the process of falling asleep if he had to.

“Red Robin.” He spoke into the mic.

“Access approved.” The artificial intelligence responded back.

“Where are they hiding you?” The words trailed off, his eyes were already glued to the screen. 

His icy blues scanned through the files; that includes, footage, clips and articles – each and every one of them, trying to search a certain code-name belonging to someone he once knew very well like the back of his hand and grew extremely fond of over the course of the years of knowing them.

The only footage that could have matched your physique was that single footage alone and it irked him to no end. 

He was already rather obsessed with the idea of trying to search for you and none of his family members nor friends managed to deter him away from his work.

However, there was a single tiny nagging voice in the back of his head that reminded him of the possible reality that there was no way you would come back unless some kind of miracle brought you back to life like what had happened to Jason and he never really touched that particular topic whenever asked.

Only vague answers from him. He would always end the conversation before it started.

—

Meanwhile, you weren't quite pleased with the fact that you had to drop out of your current school and had to take online classes to finish your high school education for the sake of a diploma to show you completed everything that was necessary to proceed further into higher education. 

Well, at least there was some compensation for it, the organisation you were under was paying for your education so you couldn't complain as much as you would like. Whether you like it or not, you need to be under everyone's radar for the time being because you were relatively vulnerable while you were in the middle of recovering.

It was rather unfortunate that you had obtained a very life-threatening wound months ago, it took you ages to finally feel like your body was yours and move it the way your brain intended it to. 

The phantom pain of being stabbed was another thing to deal with in the midst of doing your everyday life now. 

Your recovery period was a lot more sedentary than you would have liked too. There was always a constant itch to do workout routines that was far too intense for your weakened state at the moment.

All in all, this was something they told you to do and it was to keep prying eyes away from you until you reached full recovery before being deployed back onto the field.

Staying with your grandma was pretty nice too, it had been quite some time since your family last visited her and it was always annual visits at the end of the school year for Christmas. 

Your other issue living in a more secluded area was, of course, none other than net signal stability. It kind of helped you to be harder to be detected and traced back but it still irked you that you would need to wait longer for your files to be downloaded.

Regardless, life has been much simpler and far less hectic than your usual ones back home. It was nice to be able to breathe for once instead of being dogpiled by both your school tasks and your other responsibilities.

It wasn't easy for your uncle to convince your parents for you to move away for your recovery period after your so-called hit and run accident which was a cover-up for your actual one. 

—

It had taken several months for Tim to get the final clue needed to prove you weren't dead and he finally got it now —

“Found you.” Tim muttered under his breath, sounding almost unhinged — wide icy blue eyes zeroed in on another footage he managed to scrape through the worldwide database, fingers hovering his keyboard. 

The teen had immediately booked the next flight available to where you were now regardless of the schedules that had lined up for him. He couldn't give a flying damn about it right this second now that he finally located your whereabouts they so desperately tried to conceal your presence from everyone.

He jumped to his closet, scavenging through his mess of clothes to throw into his carry-on luggage bag for him to bring with on his impromptu trip.

The next morning, he made his way to Gotham’s airport without so much as leaving a note to mention where he would be. He doesn't want anything to risk his solid decision.

The dawning realisation fell upon him when he touched-down at your home country airport. He was finally here. He was finally able to see you now. 

His next hurdle was to track you down to your very exact location and it wasn't going to be a breeze for him – he hated to admit and they covered your tracks far too well for any mistakes to happen. 

It took him roughly a week or so to get a clue of you. 

—

Tim spotted your silhouette from miles away before he made a beeline for you. He called out your name almost desperately, causing you to turn back and face him. 

You looked as pretty as the last time he saw you. A sheepish look plastered your features as you faced him fully. 

“...Found you.” He exhaled out, he was a little out of breath from sprinting to your spot. Call him crazy or whatever. He wasn't going to lose sight of you. 

“...Uh, hi, hey, Timbo,” you chuckled, your eyes betrayed you as there was a look of guilt behind them despite you trying to play it off coolly, “took you long enough, huh?” 

He remained silent as he stared at you, soaking in your presence and trying to etch everything about you right now into his brain. His icy blue eyes were starting to intimidate you right now because you rarely ever felt so exposed in someone's presence before. 

“Heh, well, don't let it get to your head,” you joked, running your fingers through your hair, “the only reason you were able to find me was because I let myself be found.”

“Shut up, I'm very upset with you right now,” His words sounded wet, as if he was fighting back his tears even though there was a deep frown set on his lips, jaws clenched and shoulders straightened (tensed). There was nothing else that indicated that he was about to cry other than his voice that carelessly betrayed him.

He had managed to trace you back to your home country was one thing, the other part was finding you at your exact location was another gamble.

He found you at the beachside of Sipitang, a town located in one of Sabah's district divisions, taking a walk while eating chicken wings skewers you had bought in a plastic dangling in your hands.

“Why, you want a reward for finding me sooner than intended?” You teased, raising an eyebrow at him, “the only thing I have on me right now is my chicken wings if you want some?”

He doesn't know what to do with himself nor what he would like to say to you now that he has found you, safe and sound in Borneo Island. He wanted to pull you into his arms so badly but he withholded himself from doing so because you would look at him weird for even attempting such a feat. 

You've known Tim for several years now and you would like to think you knew him from the inside out enough to take notice of his little quirks and decipher them to how he would like to be perceived as.

You opened your arms wide, inviting him for the hug that the other boy was trying to force himself not to give.

It took him a few moments to finally give in, and pushed his pride away to embrace you, taking you into his arms and feeling the warmth you gave away through your body. He hid his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent.

“I miss you.”

“I'm very much aware,” you chuckled into his shoulders, squeezing him, “don't think I didn't notice you snooping around our database, you loser."

“I need to prove to them you aren't dead and I need to see it with my own eyes.” He admitted, wounding his arms tighter around you.

“Of course you’d do that, you stalker.” 

“I really did miss you.”

“Me too.”

[witchpassing]

catching strays [4/final]

[prev] [first]

content notes: undernegotiated BDSM, use of transphobic slurs.

My side of it - that’s, I mean to say, the handler side - it’s mostly just operant conditioning. All the really complex stuff happens on the neurochemical level; I was never trained in the processes there, didn’t have the right PhD to get my head around it. Didn’t need to know what was happening in the black box to, uh. Pull the levers. Look, it’s all in the documents, alright? I even got you the formula for the cocktail.

You know what operant conditioning is, right? Haven’t shot all your behaviorologists yet? Ha, ha. Just… just a little joke. 

Thud of meat on meat echoes off the cigarette-stained ceiling. Rook lists to her right, cherry-red drool spilling from a fucked lip; “Position six,” Katya spits, hammering the keyphrase back in, and the pilot’s stance corrects itself with a visceral hindbrain twitch. Down on her knees, fingers interlaced at the base of her skull. Through the mess, she manages to get out: 

“Front of your hand.”

“I don’t think I asked you a question, pilot,” Katya says, military-issue ice. Rook works her sore jaw, keeps talking; head down, eyes low, like she’s not fucking baiting her.

“Palm’s softer than, than the back,” she says. “Less bone. Need to give me time to, clench my jaw, too. ‘r it might get dislocated.” Grins up at Katya out of the corner of her eye. “Then what’m I gonna tell the vet?”

Again. Of course. Harder this time, hard enough to put Rook into a facedown sprawl. Katya watches her try to get up, watches the tendons work beneath her skin, fingers dug into ratty carpet, dark tangle of hair sweat-stuck to cheekbone. Heave of her scapulae, sweat beading on the blades like dew. 

She visualises the point of contact, the way the bruise, when it forms in a couple of hours, will print the shape of her knuckles upon Rook’s face. Casually, as if it means nothing at all, Katya leans down and -

“Position six, fuckup.” 

- spits on her. 

I told you already, there wasn’t - there wasn’t time, you understand? The writing was on the wall - your writing, on your wall - I had to take what I could and get out. They were burning shit, shredding it, whatever they thought would keep the vultures off their backs. 

I had a file. Everyone had a file. It wasn’t special, because I wasn’t special. There’s nothing in there you need to hear. If it ever surfaces, I promise - it’ll bore you to tears. 

Rook’s nails scrabbling at her arm, keratin and polycarbonate, marking tallies in the skin. She hisses, adjusts her footing in the mattress, winds the chokehold tighter. Rook is taller, heavier, younger, fitter, and none of it is really helping because she’s not fighting back the way a person would; she can’t, Katya is Handler and you don’t fucking fight Handler. This, pulsing livid from the brainstem, is the blindfire of an animal brain that thinks it’s being killed and doesn’t know what to do about it. 

“Look at you,” Katya murmurs into her ear; Rook whines back, base and guttural, shudder and twitch. “Pissing away the People’s money for a cheap little adrenaline high.” Framing it like that feels good in her gut. The momentary satisfaction of breaking something flimsy and pathetic, stretched over several hours like taffy. Spit on Rook’s bare shoulder. Spit in the great red eye of Revolution. Another hitch tighter. “How much therapy is it gonna take to paint this over? How many weeks are we tacking onto your recovery timeline here - don’t struggle, you deserve this, take it or tap out you weak little shit--” 

Rook - eyes rolled half-back in her head, so hard that it’s a wonder the blood choke hasn’t put her under yet - whimpers out something that might be sorry sorry sorry Ma’am sorry, stops kicking, doesn’t tap. 

No, I never… nothing like that. Jesus, what the hell do you take me for? I came in, didn’t I? I risked my goddamn neck for you, I got you everything I could, that doesn’t get me some kind of - benefit of the doubt? Yeah, I was in the program, and yes, that meant doing some pretty sick shit to keep my head above water, but there is a critical distiction here that I think you’re not getting your head around: some of us were doing it for fun, because we liked it, and I was never one of those. 

“--And you already know what you’re going to tell the vet, because it’ll be the same - ghn - thing you always tell them, Rook; you went to a bar, you found the worst person there, and you convinced them to beat you until you felt a little better about your sad fucking life. You don’t even have to lie, Rook, because that’s exactly what you’re doing, exactly what you’ve done before a dozen fucking times, I know you have, you’re hooked on this shit-”

“Handler-” 

“Shut the fuck up, position five, I’m talking.” 

“S-sorry, sorry, sorry-” 

“You don’t get into fights because you’re a Junta vet, or a tranny who can’t pass, or any other kind of broken wing shit - don’t you know, Rook? This is their clean bright world, and they’re making it better every day! Bad things just don’t happen any more, not even to people like you. No, you get beaten ‘cause you want it, because you’re a bad dog and you need to be kicked.” 

“Hgk--” 

“What, you got something to say? You got something to say for yourself, you pathetic fucking--” 

-

Doe. Her name was Doe. I had her three years, and I never laid a hand on her. 

-

Spatter of sleet on dirty window; dim light bathing the ceiling, slanting sodium-yellow into a corner, sloping away. Katya locks her jaw against something unformed and pathetic, smears her cramping fingers against her thigh. Glistening slug-trail of her own cooling slick. It’s not working, it’s not enough. 

Not even close. 

Rook is curled at the foot of her bed, hazed out on recauterised conditioning and oxygen deprivation and what might be the first fresh bloom of a concussion. Katya can’t see her, but she can hear her breathing, ragged and slow through a bruise-blued throat. Now and then, a hypnic jerk, a yip. Chasing cars in her shallow sleep.

Katya knows that if she calls Rook to her, if she uses her for this, she’ll run out of stories to tell herself. For once, she understands where she stands in the moment, instead of in hindsight: just shy of the line, just this side of the event horizon. There will be no more plausible deniability, no matter what she tries to say. 

But the room is dark- 

and the door is locked- 

and nobody will ever know. 

Katya clicks her tongue, tchk-chk. Lets her head roll back, her eyes flutter shut. At the foot of her bed, Rook wakes.

“Here, girl.” 

She feels the mattress shift as Rook levers herself up. Hot breath between her parting thighs, a squirm of electricity in the base of her spine. An ache like permafrost cracking, and fuck she’s needed this, needed it for years, not just the desperate conciliatory tell-me-I’m-good-again head but every pathological detail, every thud of her hand against sorry, begging meat, every death-hissed trigger, the way ma’am sounds on a broken girl’s tongue. Nothing else has ever come close to being enough.

Even now, it should be disgusting how much blood there is in Rook’s spit, but she doesn’t care. If the pilot is carrying something, Katya has been sick with it for years. 

So she fists her grip in her hair, shoves her down, and twists her ankles tight around her head, as if anything left in that burned-out skull would let her stop before her Handler comes. 

-

No, I don’t know what her real name was. 

I get… terms, right? I get to negotiate? I gave you a lot, I should…

I don’t want to talk about this any more. 

-

Crouching half-clothed in her tiny bathroom, rinsing a spiral of runoff off Rook’s nakedness. Not aftercare, exactly; she’s never given it before, and she’s not starting now. Just… didn’t really sound like a good idea to kick Rook out while she still looked like a fresh traffic accident. Medical kit under the kitchen counter. Work to be done, to keep the vultures off her back. 

“All that about giving you what you deserve,” she says, over the hush of the shower. “It was bullshit.” 

Rook lifts her head, good eye pushing open against the bruise. “Ma’am?” 

“Telling myself I was punishing you. Teaching you a lesson.” Her fingers itch for a cigarette. “You had something you wanted from me, and you figured out the right sequence of words to take it.” 

The pilot murmurs, almost too quiet for her to hear: 

“You alright down there, girl? Looks like you got a real working over.”

“Oh, fuck you, asshole. Maybe you do deserve me.”

Rook laughs.

[softcuddledrone]

So theoretically if someone were too, I don’t know, go to the cafe and wish to become a cuddledrone, how would the process go exactly? Asking for. A friend. [the friend is me]

Apologies in advance bc this is going to be a long ramble

Initial contact with Miss Manager (the proxy), undergo an interview so management can get a feel for your intentions and desires. Hypnosis to get a deeper look at true desires is optional but ultimately an opt-in step.

A contract is drawn up to determine the duration of one's employment within the Cafe (reviewed and renewed annually; the majority of the contract is favored heavily towards the soon-to-be-cuddledrone's autonomy (should it want it returned).

Congratulations! You have been accepted into the Cuddledrone Cafe! Don't celebrate just yet though, as there is approximately one entire filing cabinet worth of paperwork to process. Don't worry, Miss Manager (and a small squad of maid-drones) will be there to explain every line as needed. Notable points in this mountain of forms includes purchasing and absolving any debts, granting temporary retainership for any associated property related contracts, arranging for movers to put any property into controlled storage, consent forms for present and future medical services (general healthcare, augmentation of any and many kinds), and general bureaucratic formalities towards never having to worry about anything and let Mistress take care of you

At this point some opt to directly proceed to augmentation! The process starts with a lengthy physical to find any and all issues to be addressed through surgery, medication, conditioning, or augmentations. Following that is the 'fun' part of the cuddledrone standard augmentation suite, which includes but is not limited to a neurological network node implant, top-grade cybernetic limbs, and anything else the new cuddledrone needs (or wants). Any augmentations post-'graduation' can either be kept or replaced free of charge for hardware of equivalent value.

Heavy augmentations over a relatively short period of time can be intensive, and requires rest, recovery, and acclimation to both the physical and cognitive aspects of new limbs and joining the sensory network. Freshly minted cuddledrones are expected and encouraged to take as much time as they need in the backrooms before assuming duties as a full-fledged cuddledrone. This also gives ample time to get to know the other drones, get used to the new diet (delicious and plentiful), pick up a hobby (enrichment is important!), get your brain rewired a few times, and so on.

Congratulations, you are now a proper cuddledrone! Enjoy your days caught in the bliss of a network feedback loop of tactile stimulation and drug-induced bliss!