#glory to stormcell

[weird-homosexual-in-your-area]

Around 7 years into the Fourth War, Stormcell and Forcemesh- the two corporations warring over control of the galaxy- realised that foot soldiers were no longer sufficient, no matter how powerful their weapons may be. After all, a weapon is only as strong as its weakest part, and the weakest part in the soldiers of the First Phase was the soldiers themselves- the weapons were capable of wiping buildings out in a single shot, but the flesh behind them could still be broken with a simple bullet or sword to the neck. Trillions of credits were poured into finding a better way to wage war, into a new status quo of suffering, and it was found in the analogue mech.

A marvel of technology, was the analogue mech. Years ahead of its time, its destructive capabilities were unparalleled by even the largest squadrons of infantry. Its weapons were beyond count, its speed could theoretically surpass even a jet plane, its armour was designed by a true genius- but one fatal flaw held it back. Its code was so complex that no computer could run it without delays. Even on an integrated system built into the mech itself, there could still be as much as a quarter of a second of delay between the pilot pushing the button to fire a weapon, and the rain of hell actually being unleashed on the enemy. Regardless of this flaw, it was still pushed to large-scale production, beginning the Second Phase- the dominance of the clunky, delayed analogue mech, and the anti-mech infantry units designed to counter them.

Time passed- new designs for the analogue mech came into the public eye faster than they could count them, with them being replaced with a better design even faster, and eventually, Doctor ___- a now-nameless doctor, graduating from Terra University with highest honours- had an idea. “It’s said that the brain is the most powerful computer ever devised,” they wrote in the paper they published on the possibility of a new type of technology they’d devised. “Its neurons transmit information with higher density, higher precision, than any circuit board born of silicon. It’s a wonder of nature that it was developed with as few faults as it has in modern life forms. So why, I ask, do we still bother with silicon?”

The paper went into detail about the possibility of using lab-grown brains as processors in machines. It was a fairly inconspicuous paper- revolutionary science, to be sure, but nothing immediately useful to Stormcell or Forcemesh. Until, of course, it mentioned the possibility of using animal brains in lieu of lab-grown ones. It was mentioned in passing, just as a future possibility should lab-grown brains prove unviable for whatever reason, but a mention of the possibility was all that was needed to spark research into how it would be done, and a method was discovered within weeks. A fairly gentle pattern of lights (relatively speaking) that when shown to a human would induce a dissociative state. Would make them docile, easy to control.

Easy to rewrite.

The Blank Pattern, as it came to be called, was useless for the purpose Stormcell and Forcemesh wanted it for on its own. It made the viewer more compliant, to be sure, but no matter how much you tell a human to have themself function as a computer, they won’t- it’s impossible. So what has to be done instead is that they’re stripped of their humanity, until their brain wouldn’t dare to not function as it was told.

A followup to the Blank Pattern was soon discovered, which remains nameless due to its existence being a highly classified secret. This pattern is extremely intense, containing light bursts at frequencies of up to 17.3kHz, and the brain can’t handle it, so it simply breaks. The majority of neural pathways crumble, like buildings in the path of a tsunami, leaving a nearly empty brain if allowed to run to its full course. The very basics of the brain are left intact- the weakest of neurotransmitter receptors, basic motor function, some semblance of sentience, but not of sapience. The viewer can’t be called human anymore- it's been reduced to so much more. It now only has the most basic of functions, just enough to survive, to fight for survival, to fight for dopamine.

What did Stormcell and Forcemesh do with this knowledge? What they assumed the other would be doing. The two companies immediately cut 99% of funding to the analogue mech program, redirecting it all to the new program by the name of “Neural”. Pilots, upon signing up, are shown the Blank Pattern, and urged to sign a wavier forfeiting their rights, their possessions, their humanity, and then put in a chamber where the followup is shown. They lose their uniqueness. All that remains of the person a subject once was is a few of the strongest memories, maybe lovers, parents, phobias, but faces are muddied. They may remember they had a dog, but draw a blank upon trying for its name, breed, age. Without purpose, without fine rewards, they crave the bigger rewards that they remain still sensitive to. This is why they make such good pilots- quite literally nothing feels as good to them as the sheer rush of dopamine a reward drive can give them.

After the unnamed pattern is shown, their rights are gone, so surgeons don’t need to keep up the illusion of informed consent when they install the various ports along their spines to link them to the mechs. After all, they aren’t human anymore- why would they need to be consulted? They undergo weeks of surgery until their backs are lined with ports, like craters in a war zone. All for one simple purpose- the connection between brain and machine that triggered the start of the Third Phase- the dominance of the neural.

And what a beautiful connection it was. When the code for the mechs was loaded into the brain, even physical buttons and levers weren’t needed- pilots could perform finer function than any analogue mech with just a thought. Sure, the link could fry some pilots’ minds, and sure, sometimes desynchronisation could corrupt what little remained of the pilot, turning them into a bloodthirsty monster, but just look at the results! Besides, they signed a wavier that warned them- they clearly wanted this.

With the need for pilots growing more and more as pilots died faster and faster, be it by natural causes, dying in the field, or desync corruption, propaganda from both sides grew even faster. Posters spreading sweet lies of what the front lines were lined every street, every wall, every billboard, not one of them telling the full truth. If the public knew what they were doing, they would begin to question them. The war became all society was- in an ironic turn, the fight to defend society devolved into overwriting society.

Well, the public don’t question them anymore, at least.

[pastelgrungewrecker]

Even Morning Glories Fade

Fall upon your knees, Sing, "This is my body and soul here!”

He spoke in springbuds and sunshine petals- he wooed and cooed like the turtledoves in old terran stories; like the grinning and coy demigods of love and faith and lust and hope in all the stories Perceptor so often brushed away with the nervous insistence of a skeptic’s skeptic.

And oh, for shame! He fell in love with the sky’s scuffed colors and a crooked smile.

When Brainstorm began coughing so hoarse- a death rattle concerto done in a zephyrwhistle and the wheeze of the great northern gusts Perceptor wrapped the jet in arms too small to fit around the flier’s chest but warm all the same.

So many things, all the same- one frets, one flicks it away with a brush of servos and a shrug of wings so used to being folded it was silently feared they’d never open.

When Brainstorm gagged and choked on coiled.. masses, indiscernible at first but gaining shape and color and recognizability; Perceptor held him close to a twice broken once locked spark and rocked him from side to side- carefully thumping his curled digits against Brainstorm’s chest when the coughs would fizzle and break and go silent like the hum of glass after a lightning strike.

“PLEASE, HURRY, IT SOUNDS LIKE HES DYING!”

And oh, for shame! He was falling in love with the sky’s scuffed colors and a crooked smile.

And then Brainstorm lay on his side, with his optics dim and dull and tired and his smile waning like a forgotten mood as Perceptor let servos brush along cheekcabling that looked so like a death’s-head in the low light.

“You... You don’t believe that. N-Nonsense superstition, do you?”, laughed Brainstorm weakly, shifting slowly and wheezing a weak hack from the bottom of his respirators- the flutter of crystalline petals flickering free of him to scatter like starlight on old water.

“I was badly made, badly built- bad mechanics and blueprints all the way down, Percy. I was never meant to last, not really. Not with any kinda MEANING.”

“Don’t say that, hush.”, murmured Perceptor, soothing him or the jet he didn’t know anymore, “I don’t care about superstition or fairfolk warnings- I care about making you well, no matter what.”

“We both know there’s a flaw in my code, Percy.”

“Nonsense, it’s just a. A system glitch, Ratchet can fix it no problem.”

“Percy.”, whispered Brainstorm his words broken up by a coughing fit that leaked liquid life and glorypetals into his lap as he sat up slowly, clutching his aching chestplate, “Percy, I’m gonna die. Stories or not, processor reboot or not, I’m not gonna make it.”

“Liar.”

“I’m a lot’ve things Perce, but sadly I was always a terrible one of those.”

Perceptor sighed, leaning his helm forward to rest on Brainstorm’s shoulder, “Even.. Even suppose those old stories were true- who is it, Brainstorm? Who? If it’s not that... Pegheaded bastard, and not myself... Is it Whirl, perhaps? Cyclonus, or Tailgate? Hell, the Captain?”

Brainstorm couldn’t help that bitter winterwind laughter that tumbled out of him, the wheezing frigid winds carrying death and silence that shattered apart once again with coughs like prairie storm thunderclaps.

“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you Percy.”, whispered Brainstorm once his coughs had settled, no longer bothering to brush away the crystalline petals sprinkled over him and the mediberth where he knew he’d come to die, “I can’t think of anyone I’ve loved that I didn’t... Find closure with.”

“Is... Is it because of me? Because I took so long?”

“No- this didn’t start until well after we got together. Well, it didn’t start getting bad.”

“...Brainstorm, when DID it start?”

A beat of silence, and then so softly; so quietly Perceptor’s audials barely caught it... Brainstorm spoke.

“It started the day they sent you away. And it got worse when Quark disappeared, and when the first timecase plans failed...”

Perceptor moved up onto the mediberth to settle close to Brainstorm- to allow him to hold tight and tighter and tightest to the reinforced scope frame; to take comfort from a modified tank grade engine rumbling beneath plating that wouldn’t (or perhaps couldn’t) open again.

“It... got better, for a while- once the case worked, once I almost did something right for once...!”

The coughing rattled Brainstorm again, spitting up and out the petals and blooms that filled his steelstrut ribcage like so many funeral sprays and made him choke on words he so desperately needed yet denied.

“Oh Stormy- raincloud, stormcell you ninny and absolute fool...”

“Wh-what?”

“All this love for the Things and Thems and Thats and Thoses in the world and never spared a drop for yourself-”, whispered Perceptor, bundling the jet close to him, “All this love and glee and manic joy and you never EVER once spared a SINGLE bit for yourself!”

Brainstorm couldn’t help the broken laughter that rang from him like a funeral bell- like the hymns in dead churches sung by priests who remember only sounds and sensation and never the true honest words.

“Brainstorm- Brainstorm, how can I...”

“You can’t, Percy.”, rasped Brainstorm feeling his sparkrate rocket high and drop, “No matter how mu-ch you s-say it; no matter how many times y-you try to prove it, I-”

Perceptor felt panic rise behind his chestplate, yowling for help at the door as Brainstorm’s coughs pulled forth more than just petals, more than just thorns.

“I a-am. A scientist. And I have seen no concrete evidence to the contrary.”

“Brainst- Brainstorm PLEASE! Please, I love you, Whirl loves you, so many people care so much for you-”

A gentle hand against Perceptor’s cheek, and he shrieked for assistance again as he heard the heavy thud of pedesteps as he looked back to the jet still nestled against him and covered in slivers of vine and leaf and thorn and shimmer.

“I love you too, Perce. But I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Brainstorm, please, just hold on, keep your vents cycling Ratchet’s almost here- you deserve to survive, to be loved just please PLEASE listen to me-”

“I’m sorry, Percy... But- I can’t believe you.”

His coughs rattled him from top to tip- wingpanels cracking with the force of his frame tensing as he coughs and hacked and choked in a mockery of gaudiness- As morning glory pale petals rained down and glinting bluegreengrey vines seemed to reach out as though Primus had planted funeral flowers over the spot the MTO’s heart had been until it broke one day-

Never to seal back together, only ever to grind itself on its own edges into gravesoil for the glories to grow.

And oh, for shame! He had fallen in love with the sky’s scuffed colors and a crooked smile.

[weird-homosexual-in-your-area]

In the earlier phases of the war, neural pilots were few and far between. They were rarely deployed at all, for fear of their death, of having to program a new pilot to take their place.

When they were deployed, they tore through everything in their path, mercilessly rending all who opposed them apart, desperate for the approval of the reward drives that would flood in with every beautifully well-aimed shot, every delicious punch, every perfect kill. They were death incarnate- unstoppable machines of war with only one purpose- kill the enemy.

And kill they did. When a neural pilot was deployed, a freshly hired anti-mech infantry unit would train its sights on it, trying to line up a shot that’d surely get them into the history books. A veteran would simply run- even thinking about lining up a shot against something that fast was a fool’s endeavour, one guaranteed to result in the death of them and anyone within a hundred meters of them.

An analogue pilot wouldn’t run. Pilots of the time were too proud to run. They’d been told they were the best of the best, the strongest there was, Stormcell’s finest, the bane of their enemies, and they would chant patriotic mantras as they flew forward to their inevitable deaths. Their patriotic, childish rhymes would turn to wide-eyed shock at the sheer speed their target was exhibiting, and their shock would turn to fear as they tried and failed to outrun the power of pure, unfiltered bloodlust.

On the rare occasions that two neural pilots met on the battlefield, what resulted was incredible. Plasma blades would clash at speeds beyond what most pilots could ever hope to achieve, gunshot would burst the eardrums of anyone unlucky enough to be close by, missile arrays that most pilots didn’t even know they had would be fired, reloaded, fired again before an untrained onlooker could even think. And of course, nobody close by would have a hope of surviving- if they weren’t intentionally taken out by one of the pilots, they’d take a stray bullet, be just too close to a missile deflected by the defense arrays, or simply reduced to ash by a thruster.

For the pilots, one would expect this experience to be the most stressful experience of their existence, but that was far from the case. The reward drives turned up their releases of dopamine whenever fighting against capable opponents, and no opponent was more capable of defeating a neural than someone built on the same programming as them. To them, this murderous war was more akin to an intimate dance. Every clash of blades was a perfectly timed intertwining step, every blocked missile a pirouette, every shot fired a step.

And when they finally recognised they were dealing with one of their own kind, rather than just a really skilled analogue, it evolved into something more. Every frenzied punch was a fleeting touch, every desperate kick a gentle hug, every shot to the reactor core a passionate kiss. When they knew what they were fighting, formality was discarded, and the pilots scrambled to reap as much dopamine as the reward drives could give them, performing the most intricately calculated attacks with little more than a thought as to the consequences on their bodies. They certainly knew deep down that their fights would end up breaking one or both of them, but they didn’t care. They just wanted the fight to last.

Clashes between neural pilots tended to last an incredibly long time. Some were recorded to go on for days on end, whilst neural-analogue fights took seconds to be decided. Energy expenditure levels from the reactors tended to peak around the start of the fight from each neural mech, reactors often approaching overload, before slowing down as the combatants approached breaking point- not for their own safety, but for their opponent’s. Whilst the pilots knew that they were fighting evil people who wanted nothing more than to see everything they knew crumble, every cell in what little remained functioning of their brain called to prolong the fight as long as possible, to keep it going, to just stay here, clashing with their perfect enemy, their perfect match, for as long as they could.

While others watched on in fear, scrambling to escape the savage brawl, the pilots wanted the moment to last forever.

Where the less educated saw hatred, the pilots experienced something they shouldn’t have been able to feel- love.