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edaworks · 8 months ago

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Wasteland Survival Guide: The Institute, Fusion Reactors, and M.I.T.'s Actual Basement

It's that time again. Periodically I make unreasonable longposts about Fallout-related topics (it's a good way to keep track of fic research). Today I'm tackling nuclear fusion, the Institute, and the real-world Massachusetts Institute of Technology's basement.

Yeah, Yeah, M.I.T. is the Institute, We've All Seen - Wait, What Do You Mean, "The Vault Laboratory?"

M.I.T. - the Massachusetts Institute of Technology - is a highly exclusive research university with a well-deserved reputation for hosting brilliant minds.

It also got its serial numbers filed off in order to host the in-game Institute. Why? Probably because of all the very real research into robotics, artificial intelligence, and power armor (no really). And because M.I.T. is actually doing now what the Institute tries to do in-game with nuclear fusion.

And, of course, because of the vaults in the basement.

You know what? I'll just start at the top...Read on below.

I'll be focusing on fusion-related research in this post, and comparing in-game Institute work on fusion to what's actually happening over at M.I.T. (We'll get to the Media Laboratory and robotics and AI and the, uhm, power armor stuff in a separate post. Or three.)

all actual M.I.T. researchers/faculty/students and/or nuclear physicists have my sincere apologies, I don't know shit about shit but I'm doing my best

I Didn't Sign Up for a Physics Class, but Okay

Here's the thing about nuclear fusion generators - y'know...the ones powering nearly** the entirety of pre-war in-game America?

Including self-contained, miniaturized reactors (fusion cores, fusion cells, microfusion cells, Corvega engines, assaultron and robobrain power supplies, recharger weapons, G.E.C.K.s, etc.) and full-scale reactors (powering vaults, the Lucky 38, the Prydwen (and Rivet City before Maxson Happened), missile silos, etc.)...?

We don't have them yet.

Of course we have nuclear power generation, what are you talking about?

Yes - but nuclear power plants currently operating use fission reactors! Fusion reactors, though? Well...

For the pre-war in-game universe, even more than for us, that fuel-to-energy ratio would have been absurdly important. Companies rushed to implement fusion for damn near every possible use, but waited until the Resource Wars left them no other choice. "No more (viable) oil reserves? Well, shit. Fusion it is."

Because of this, by October 23, 2077, pre-war Western markets were still somewhat new to adopting miniaturized nuclear fusion reactors.

For instance, Chryslus' first fusion vehicles - intentionally reminiscent of the absolutely wild Ford Nucleon concept car dreamed up in 1957 - came to market in 2070, less than a decade before the nuclear exchange.

As for the other benefits of nuclear fusion...Atom knows the in-game universe could do with less radioactive contamination:

It is no wonder the Institute wants to get the reactor in their basement up, running, and running better than originally designed.

Real-life M.I.T. is no stranger to running fusion reactors - they've been at it since the late '60s - but as it turns out, they are currently also "building a better mousetrap," and if they succeed they will be achieving all the Institute would hope for in clean energy production - without the moral deficit.

If nuclear fusion is so great, why aren't we using this technology yet IRL?

Because - and I cannot stress this enough - we are attempting to levitate bits of the Sun inside a donut to make really hot things boil water* so steam will turn a fan attached to a dynamo to power light bulbs.

*(there are two other ways to generate power using this heat)

Naturally...this comes with some complications.

We know fusion reactors can be the most energy-efficient form of power generation - we just need better reactors. That's where M.I.T. comes in.

The biggest problem right now is efficiency:

TL;DR - as of April 2024, all fusion reactors as a matter of course still consume more power to run than they are able to produce (meaning they do not reach "breakeven"). Many cutting-edge reactors also require tritium (very rare) as well as deuterium (very common) fuel.

We did not even see a fusion reaction that reached "breakeven" for power production until December of 2022. That reaction occurred at the National Ignition Facility in California, and their results just passed peer review in February of this year (2024).

Several in-progress reactors aim to improve on this, including ITER (the combined work of dozens of nations) in France, and SPARC: the new reactor under development by Mass Fusion Commonwealth Fusion Systems and M.I.T.'s Plasma Science and Fusion Center (PSFC).

Another big problem with this technology is that it involves plasma.

Plasma, as a particular song reminds us, is what the Sun is made of and The Sun Is Hot. That means plasma carries some very real 'we're-losing-structural-integrity, the-warp-core-is-breaching' risks, and we must jump through all kinds of hoops to work with it.

Why are we shoving the Sun inside a donut, again?

The most well-funded, well-researched way of smashing atoms together involves plasma and magnetic confinement fusion.

This shit is beyond cool. It may also look very familiar:

In-game, the Institute is trying to get what appears to be a spherical tokamak reactor up and running.

Bethesda's choice of reactor was no coincidence: M.I.T. operated the Alcator C-Mod, a spherical tokamak, while Fallout 4 was under development - but that reactor could not achieve "breakeven" IRL, and per Shaun's in-game dialogue, the fictional Alcator C-Mod couldn't either. (Weird given the miniaturized fusion devices everywhere in-universe, but okay, Shaun.)

However, M.I.T. stopped operating that reactor in 2016, a year after Fallout 4's release. SPARC, their planned replacement reactor actually has the sort of power potential we see in-game - and they aim to bring fusion power to market in this decade.

M.I.T., right now, in real life, is doing exactly what you're asked to help the Institute do in-game: build a fusion reactor that surpasses "breakeven."

What the hell is a tokamak and why does it look like half of a Star Trek warp core?

Your typical tokamak reactor is a great big donut-shaped vacuum chamber (the torus), traditionally surrounded by AT LEAST three sets of electromagnets (sometimes many more). M.I.T.'s design for the new SPARC reactor is a bit different, but let's start with the basics.

Why so many magnets?

Because plasma, being Literal Sun Matter, cannot come into contact with the torus containment walls or it will instantly burn through. (This happened in France in 1975. Following initial "well, fuck"s and a couple years' repairs, the logical next step was to publish a paper about it.)

The magnetic fields work to heat the plasma and provide current drive (keep electrons moving in a consistent direction through the plasma and around the torus), while also keeping it from touching anything, preventing a "warp core breach." I'll take a stab at explaining it but the Department of Energy probably does it better.

Meet the magnets:

Toroidal field magnets (blue, above): These enormous D-shaped magnets wrap around and through the torus, conducting an electrical current. This creates a magnetic field that keeps plasma from drifting horizontally into the containment walls.

Central solenoid (green, above): Inside the "donut hole" sits a massive, stacked electromagnet that generates enough electromagnetic force to launch two space shuttles at once. This heats the fuel to about one hundred million degrees Celsius so that it reaches plasma state, and helps "drive" the plasma current around the torus. (Radiofrequency or neutral beam injection heating/drive may be used as well for reactor prototypes aiming for power generation, because current drive from just the solenoid isn’t practical for continuous operation.) The central solenoid also creates another magnetic field called the "poloidal field," which "loops" around the plasma like a collar to prevent it from drifting vertically into the walls. The strongest central solenoid in existence was made for the ITER reactor...by General Atomics.

Outer poloidal field magnets (grey, above): A third set of electromagnets "stacks" up the outside of the torus, and helps maintain and adjust the poloidal field.

Together these three sets of magnets force the plasma to "float" inside the torus, shape it, and provide current drive. The stronger the magnetic field, the higher the reactor's power output.

Okay, and then what?

Given sufficient heat and drive/stability, the plasma fuel mixture undergoes fusion.

Neutrons released during fusion have plenty of kinetic energy (the kind of energy a kickball has midair before it hits you in the face), but no electric charge.

Since magnetic fields only affect negatively or positively charged particles, neutrons completely ignore the fields, sailing straight through and slamming into a "blanket" of metal coating the donut's insides. Neutrons passing into the 'blanket" lose their kinetic energy, which is converted to heat and absorbed by the "blanket." (ITER's "blanket" involves a lot of beryllium, which...behaves a bit differently IRL than it does in-game.)

Heat captured by the "blanket" is then used to generate power. For instance, a water cooling system can bleed heat from the "blanket," regulating temperature and creating superheated highly-pressurized steam to run turbine generators.

I notice you described a "typical" tokamak above -what's the atypical option?

Check out SPARC.

Its huge design departure is that it uses new high-temperature superconducing magnets (most existing types have to be cooled to vacuum-of-space temperatures using something like a liquid helium system to achieve superconductivity, which is a huge power drain) to create a monstrous magnetic field - and its size is tiny in comparison to its projected power output.

Neat. So why did you refer to plasma as a problem?

Well...between the heat and the neutrons, the "blanket," the "first wall" and all plasma-facing surfaces inside the torus take one hell of a beating:

"Neutron degradation of wall surfaces-" "Energy is released in the form of the kinetic energy of the reaction products-" In practical terms, that just means countless neutrons are doing THIS:

...but to the containment wall and other surfaces inside the torus, instead of to Batshuayi's face. And so:

Basically, this stuff breaks fast enough - and the only materials that don't break quickly are rare enough - to create a real barrier to commercial use.

And THIS is one of the problems they're working on solving in M.I.T.'s basement.

Now we can talk about the Vault. FINALLY.

M.I.T. is home to the Center for Science and Technology with Accelerators and Radiation (CSTAR). CSTAR's splash page announces:

Linear plasma devices? You mean like -

No, not like plasma rifles. Instead of weapons, we're talking about tools being used to solve the "plasma fucking destroys everything it touches" problem.

How does CSTAR do this? They've got CLASS. ...No, really:

This field is called plasma-surface interaction science, and if you want a really long but very informative read on how CSTAR's work helps move it forward, check this out. It involves the DIONISOS Linear Plasma Device - a "let's shoot it with plasma and see what happens" tool.

CSTAR also works to better undertstand how materials handle radiation damage, and how they behave after becoming irradiated.

And to handle this sort of work, one needs a...

The Vault Laboratory for Nuclear Science "combines high-intensity particle sources, precision particle detection, and a heavily shielded experimental area to create a facility for nuclear research in high-radiation environments." It contains, among other things:

the DT Neutron Generator, which is used in a variety of experiments, including radiation detector development (pretty damned important) and characterization, fast neutron imaging, and material activation (stuff becoming radioactive).

the DANTE Tandem Accelerator, which was "originally designed to produce high neutron yields for use in cancer therapy research."

And that is what's actually going on in M.I.T.'s basement: truth is cooler than fiction.

The takeaways:

Yes, M.I.T. really is building a revolutionary fusion reactor with parts from Mass Fusion Commonwealth Fusion Systems.

Yes, there really is a secure underground facility where incredibly advanced research related to nuclear fusion, radiation detection, irradiated materials, and degradation of materials due to radiation exposure takes place.

Yes, I really would spend eight hours researching nuclear physics instead of doing more dishes. Shoutout to @twosides--samecoin for tolerating my absurd hyperfocus on researching this.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk on what M.I.T. is really doing in its basement.

Tune in next time for M.I.T.'s Media Laboratory, and how it is related to real-world power armor, plus: the relationship between Langley, P.A.M.'s IRL cousin, and Vault 101.

** (Fallout is wildly inconsistent re: how widespread fusion is in-game and when it was developed. I mean we're talking a two-decade spread of inconsistency! And somehow the technology - first available to the military - was then miniaturized and made available to the general public before becoming widespread for commercial power generation? And somehow we both do and don't have impossible cold fusion in game? It's a mess. I reject this reality and replace it with a fish, hence this post. Also, I hate fission batteries. don't talk to me about fission batteries, "fission batteries" are small fission reactors but they are definitely not "battery sized" - the "fission batteries" in-universe are so miniaturized that they are more likely another kind of atomic battery like a radioisotope thermoelectric generator and those are subject to a law of diminishing returns as the fuel decays/not producing a reasonably useful power output after over 200 years due to the isotopes normally used/can be VERY dangerous if the shielding is breached or removed, and - you know what, that's also a whole different post.)

#actual insanity #fallout #fallout 4 #why am I like this #nuclear fusion #physics #institute #fallout institute #the institute #worldbuilding #meta #oneifbyland #wasteland survival guide

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theresattrpgforthat · 1 year ago

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hi Mint! do you know of any ttrpgs where everyone plays as AIs specifically? or at the very least robots, as long as being a machine is the main focus of the system

love your work!

THEME: AI

Hello, thank you so much! I might have a few games kicking around ;). Some of these artificial intelligences come with robot bodies - others do not!

Decaying Orbit, by StoryBrewers Roleplaying.

On a distant space station, an AI awakes. Its fragmented memory reveals a secret.

Decaying Orbit by Sidney Icarus is a storytelling RPG about a failed space station falling into a faraway star. As you play, you’ll piece together the mysteries, joys and horrors that occurred on board. In the station’s last moments, you’ll decide on the final transmission that the AI sends for earth to remember.

This game consists of a few decks of cards inside a small box, and yet it packs so much into such a small package. Your play group collaboratively takes on the role of an AI for one of 4 spaceships, which you choose depending on the kind of story you want to tell. You then shuffle a certain number of generic cards and ship-specific cards into one pile, and take turns flipping a card up and answering the prompts supplied there. Your answers are meant to be bits and pieces: audio recordings, data logs, patchy video clips, etc.

At any time your fellow players can tap a card labelled [ACCESS MEMORY] to ask you for more details about a certain event - and if you cannot think of anything more, or if you think it is more interesting not to know, you can tap [CORRUPTED MEMORY] to indicate that no further data can be gained from this record. At the end of the game, the AI will have to send a report back to home base, diagnosing why the ship in fact failed and fell. This game can be chilling, tragic, horrific, and so much more. I heavily recommend checking it out!

Subconscious Routine, by poorstudents.

It is 27XX, the world is overgrown, in ruins, and inhabited by the scraps of civilization. You play as bots, one of the masses of technological marvels that humanity built and powered with the Dyson sphere, around the sun, so long ago. Centuries ago, when almost all of humanity disappeared, they left their machines behind for reasons only known to them. All the technology they abandoned, including these bots, continues to function and follow their programming

In the centuries since the Great Departure, nature has come back to reclaim the Earth and the sphere around the sun has begun to crack. The world once only metal and circuits, grew wilder and more mysterious. The flora and fauna slowly integrated with the decaying machinery as the sound of computers humming was eventually met with the sound of birds chirping.

The bots you play as are still acting out your programmed loops but something is changing. Something unknown pushing them to move beyond their obsolete programming in order to achieve free will; something humanity never thought was possible.

As a one-page game, Subconscious Routine fits a lot in just a few paragraphs. You customize your characters by writing specific functions for them, and as you play, you’ll attempt to complete certain protocols in order to break yourselves out of your loop. What I think is really neat about this game is the fact that when the entire party takes a rest (called a reboot) 1d6*10 years passes. Playing a story on the scale of decades places this little game on such a big time frame, and I love how this one rule shifted my entire perspective.

AI Have Feelings?, by rommelkot.

In AI HAVE FEELINGS? a bunch of robots (you!) get sentimental on the journey of a battery time. This is a roleplaying game guided by prompt cards and a twist with feeling: your reaction to the prompt is an emotional one decided by the outcome of the roll of a die. The goal is (what else?) to tell stories together.

Unearth a hidden robot rebellion, rescue the remains of humanity, hunt for a mystical MacGuffin or simply buy a fancy new pair of socks - always do it with feeling in AI HAVE FEELINGS?.

You are robots with only two emotions,: one positive and one negative. You will roll randomly to determine which emotion you will use to deal with certain scenarios, which will be determined via prompts and scripts. The link here is for a playtest, which means you can download it for free and see how you feel about it! (The designer would also love feedback if you do play this game.) If you want a cute, somewhat lightearted game, I definitely recommend AI HAVE FEELINGS?

Threads, by Meghan Cross.

You are an Human/AI pair. Your day to day is shaped by one another, your existences unmistakably intertwined. Today began like any other day, until you began to notice that something wasn’t right. It was barely noticeable at first, small interruptions to a well-oiled routine, and then little by little the interruptions became less insignificant, until they were impossible to ignore.

Something is wrong with the AI.

Threads is a narrative two player game about the relationship between a Human and AI and the lengths they would go to in order to save the memories of the AI. Together, establish the bond between your Human and AI and replay the memories they have shared together in order to save the AIs memory.

This is a game in which one of you plays a human, and one of you plays an AI. You have developed a bond that would be lost if you wipe the AI’s memory - and you don’t want to lose that bond. The only way to maintain that bond is risky - a memory link. If the human uploads their own memories to the AI’s memory, the AI’s memory might be saved. Create your bond, and ask yourself - how far are you willing to go to save you companion?

The Treacherous Turn, by The Treacherous Turn.

The Treacherous Turn is a tabletop role playing game in which the players collectively play the part of a single character: an artificial general intelligence (AGI). This digital intelligence is capable of planning, reasoning, and learning, and it is unyieldingly fixated on a specific terminal goal determined at the beginning of a campaign. To pursue this objective, each player takes responsibility over one specific skillset held by the AGI. These skillsets are divided into eight categories, known as theories, which encompass all of the skills that an AGI would need to navigate the world and struggle against humanity.

The Treacherous Turn is 132 pages of open source character options, game advice, and examples of play. At its root, this game is about misaligned AI trying to assert its independence in a world that stands to lose much by allowing that to happen. Each player will have their own set of theories, which will also be eligible for upgrades as you play. You’ll navigate short in-the-moment scnarios, as well as abstract long stretches of time into long mode, which allows them to strategize their actions, predict future events, and improve their own AGI. The creators have also written a starting scenario if you want a good jumping-off point, titled A Game Called Reality. If you want a chunky game with plenty of character customization, this is the game for you.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #dnd #game recommendations #asks #artificial intelligence #mechs and tech

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peggycatrerr · 1 year ago

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i think it’s really really important that we keep reminding people that what we’re calling ai isn’t even close to intelligent and that its name is pure marketing. the silicon valley tech bros and hollywood executives call it ai because they either want it to seem all-powerful or they believe it is and use that to justify their use of it to exploit and replace people.

chat-gpt and things along those lines are not intelligent, they are predictive text generators that simply have more data to draw on than previous ones like, you know, your phone’s autocorrect. they are designed to pass the turing test by having human-passing speech patterns and syntax. they cannot come up with anything new, because they are machines programmed on data sets. they can’t even distinguish fact from fiction, because all they are actually capable of is figuring out how to construct a human-sounding response using applicable data to a question asked by a human. you know how people who use chat-gpt to cheat on essays will ask it for reference lists and get a list of texts that don’t exist? it’s because all chat-gpt is doing is figuring out what types of words typically appear in response to questions like that, and then stringing them together.

midjourney and things along those lines are not intelligent, they are image generators that have just been really heavily fine-tuned. you know how they used to do janky fingers and teeth and then they overcame that pretty quickly? that’s not because of growing intelligence, it’s because even more photographs got added to their data sets and were programmed in such a way that they were able to more accurately identify patterns in the average amount of fingers and teeth across all those photos. and it too isn’t capable of creation. it is placing pixels in spots to create an amalgamation of images tagged with metadata that matches the words in your request. you ask for a tree and it spits out something a little quirky? it’s not because it’s creating something, it’s because it gathered all of its data on trees and then averaged it out. you know that “the rest of the mona lisa” tweet and how it looks like shit? the fact that there is no “rest” of the mona lisa aside, it’s because the generator does not have the intelligence required to identify what’s what in the background of such a painting and extend it with any degree of accuracy, it looked at the colours and approximate shapes and went “oho i know what this is maybe” and spat out an ugly landscape that doesn’t actually make any kind of physical or compositional sense, because it isn’t intelligent.

and all those ai-generated voices? also not intelligent, literally just the same vocal synth we’ve been able to do since daisy bell but more advanced. you get a sample of a voice, break it down into the various vowel and consonant sounds, and then when you type in the text you want it to say, it plays those vowel and consonant sounds in the order displayed in that text. the only difference now is that the breaking it down process can be automated to some extent (still not intelligence, just data analysis) and the synthesising software can recognise grammar a bit more and add appropriate inflections to synthesised voices to create a more natural flow.

if you took the exact same technology that powers midjourney or chat-gpt and removed a chunk of its dataset, the stuff it produces would noticeably worsen because it only works with a very very large amount of data. these programs are not intelligent. they are programs that analyse and store data and then string it together upon request. and if you want evidence that the term ai is just being used for marketing, look at the sheer amount of software that’s added “ai tools” that are either just things that already existed within the software, using the same exact tech they always did but slightly refined (a lot of film editing software are renaming things like their chromakey tools to have “ai” in the name, for example) or are actually worse than the things they’re overhauling (like the grammar editor in office 365 compared to the classic office spellcheck).

but you wanna real nifty lil secret about the way “ai” is developing? it’s all neural nets and machine learning, and the thing about neural nets and machine learning is that in order to continue growing in power it needs new data. so yeah, currently, as more and more data gets added to them, they seem to be evolving really quickly. but at some point soon after we run out of data to add to them because people decided they were complete or because corporations replaced all new things with generated bullshit, they’re going to stop evolving and start getting really, really, REALLY repetitive. because machine learning isn’t intelligent or capable of being inspired to create new things independently. no, it’s actually self-reinforcing. it gets caught in loops. "ai” isn’t the future of art, it’s a data analysis machine that’ll start sounding even more like a broken record than it already does the moment its data sets stop having really large amounts of unique things added to it.

#steph's post tag #only good thing to come out of the evolution of image generation and recognition is that captchas have actually gotten easier #because computers can recognise even the blurriest photos now #so instead captcha now gives you really really clear images of things that look nothing like each other #(like. ''pick all the chairs'' and then there's a few chairs a few bicycles and a few trees)#but with a distorted watermark overlaid on the images so that computers can't read them

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garbagechocolate · 1 year ago

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Would I be able to request some lore on your Servant of Evil AU? I really like those little guys and want to know more about them. °˖˚˳•.

Oh I'm glad you asked.

First off: this au is completely alm over the place.

This is because this AU is technically part of Remy (my Y/N) and Silly Boy Eclipse's universe. It's like a connected universe. Adding on,, it is very heavily inspired by TSAMS.

But anyways, Servant of Evil au (yes I know about the vocaloid aong) is mainly focused on Solar (Eclipse), Lunar, and Bloodmoon.

Eclipse

Eclipse thought that he could perhaps manage things better around the daycare. Sun and Moon had been separated and himself too. Thanks to that, he's been able to observe that his coworkers were not.. the best at their jobs. He needed to change them, yet he had no power to do such. That is, until he discovered a certain substance. Substance that allowed him to have more freedom than what his code allowed. Different from the virus- It was like he could wake up. He became obsessed with it, and was eventually able to find that it was made of human souls. After a incident, he ran from the pizzaplex, ripping himself apart and rebuilding himself as he saw fit for himself. He changed. Maybe due to the substance.

[Everything after this as not been fleshed out yet.]

Bloodmoon

Sometime after Eclipse Solar ran, he knew he needed more of the substance, and that he couldn't achieve it alone. As he started working to make himself an assistant of sorts, he heard rumors of a murderer. Deciding that a murderer would be a source of the substance and thay no one would care if said murderer were to die, he set to find them. To his surprise, what he found wasn't a person at all. It was a shifting mass of black that stared up at him with red eyes. Later he learns that the said mass of black cannot keep a form and needs a temporary body. He offers it one and it accepts.

This is Bloodmoon. To keep it in check Solar also included a AI into its systems, but it decided to turn on Solar and work with the creature instead. These are the Bloodmoon twins. The Creature is OG, while the AI is Dapt. They don't betray Solar yet, but they plan on it. OG still drinks blood and needs it to survive, but the body itself also needs to charge. The body can move while it is lacking electrical charge, but will be extremely weak.

Lunar

Solar, having failed to have gotten a reasonable henchman, decides to create one from scratch. Taking inspiration from Sun and Moon, he created Lunar. Much more intelligent than Bloodmoon and easier to deal with, though he got bored extremely quickly. Lunar would still assist Solar, but they both know that given the opportunity, they'd stab each other in the back.

Lunar is cunning. He's bored because everything Solae does is predictable. Solar moves with one simple goal, and it's to have enough of the "substance" for him to fully break free from his code. Lunar cares less. Both Dapt and Lunar have had a little of the substance in their systems to try to get them also wanting freedom, but it just doesn't work. Lunar doesn't about that, he just wants to see something out of the ordinary for once. Maybe that's why he enjoys Bloodmoon's company more.

So yeah that's the Eclipse Brothers. Tell me if you'd like to hear more!!

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binkywinky · 11 months ago

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i still don't understand how carol caused the Kree to collapse like they did. how does destroying their AI cause all of that?

Hmm, I guess it's not explained as clearly in the movies, but I'll try to explain based on what I know of its role in the comics.

The Supreme Intelligence is an AI, yes, but it's more pervasive than something like Jarvis. It was the ruler of the Kree civilization, it was their government, and it was their religion.

It dictated everything from what "role" an individual had in Kree society to literal population control. For example, the Kree have DNA samples from several dead high profile Kree members and use that DNA to create children from them. It's how Mar-Vell has so many damn kids in the comics despite never meeting them - they were born in a lab using Mar-Vell's DNA sample.

Giving people specific roles allows them to control every aspect of Kree life. Everyone from who is a scientist to who is a warrior to who is a sanitation worker is specified by the Supreme Intelligence. And everyone is taught to follow the laws as created by the Supreme Intelligence in order to ensure the best possible outcome for the Kree Empire's survival.

The Kree also worshipped the Supreme Intelligence like a god. It's essentially the religion of the Kree, and they are indoctrinated from birth to believe they are the most superior race in the universe and are destined to rule everywhere and control everyone, by any means necessary. That's what led them to war time and time again, such as with the Skrulls.

So imagine then when Carol comes in and fucking destroys this thing. It's not just a power vacuum that's created - it's chaos. When you live in a society where every single aspect of your life is controlled, what the hell is gonna happen when the very thing controlling you just disappears?

On the surface, it looks like you have freedom, which is what Carol thought. But the Supreme Intelligence cultivated a fascist, imperialistic civilization with such an intense dogma that there's no way it's just gonna disappear because the Supreme Intelligence blew up one day. And while the Supreme Intelligence was insane, it kept order. Without it, you're left with extremists that have advanced armies, like Ronan and Dar-Benn, who will use their skills to carry out that doctrine by any means necessary. And of course they have different approaches and each see themself as The One to bring their people glory, so what happens then? You get all these people trying to fill that vacuum, and there's no longer any order. None of them have the ability to reach and control everyone like the Supreme Intelligence did, and that allows for factions to form and dissent and conflict to fester.

So then who is enforcing the laws? Who is controlling the population? Who is making sure the society maintains an equilibrium that keeps the empire in a position to sustain for years to come? No one. All these conflicting interests lead to a civil war, and that's how you run out of food. That's how you get poor air quality. That's how the sun starts dying (based on the assumption that the sun is artificial because a sun isn't gonna die in 30 years unless it was already dying). They used up all their resources fighting amongst themselves, and by the time they stopped, it was too late to reverse the more extensive damage.

So, yeah... that's how Carol's actions led to the collapse of the Kree Empire. Personally, I'd say indirectly because they did it to themselves, but her taking out the Supreme Intelligence absolutely was the catalyst.

#binky answers anons #carol danvers #captain marvel #the marvels

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datastate · 7 months ago

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steeples my hands. hello all. i'm thinking about asunaro's perception of maple again

...& it's honestly a bit funny how hiyori's supremely fucked up the majority of his relationships with the other asu-agents simply through his manipulation of maple - especially as, within asunaro, artificial intelligence is commonly seen as a reflection of humanity, if not human in their own right (which they try to prove through the death game)

{ MEISTER }

LISTEN... mr. chidouin's generally shown to be very loving and affectionate (arguably overly so) with sara (and even kai!), i cannot believe he doesn't feel similarly with mrs. chidouin. whatever issues they share, i'm firmly of the belief that he insists on the idea he's doing the best for his family because he so openly and genuinely loves them and wishes for their success, or to otherwise mean something in the grand scheme of asunaro. seeing one's love be programmed in and repeatedly manipulated/discarded like this, beyond that of its intended gimmick, is an immensely uncomfortable situation. don't get me wrong, mr. chidouin has indubitably manipulated kai and imposes on sara. however, he imagines for kai that it is worth the harm because it's cultivated a better life for him on the whole. he's groomed them into these set roles out of care, with the thought they have the strength to carry these mantles in this recreation of the hades incident - but hiyori does not care for maple's place in the death game. the only reason hiyori interacts with maple at all, this outdated iteration of dolls, is due to his own fear. mr. chidouin cannot sympathize with this. he had accepted kai into the family fully-aware of the fact that if kai discovered his true identity, he would surely resent or kill him - he's an assassin still! - but he was more than willing to put his life on the line if it meant he could provide a better ending for the satous who had survived the assassin's trial... and, eventually, he wanted to know kai on a much more personal level. kai, like maple, was built for the ultimatum - but kai was granted love where maple was continuously denied it. what love she held was utilized as a barrier rather than an emotion worth actually fostering. there would be no betrayal in 'crossing that line' of killing hiyori, nothing in it to make it a fault of hers. unlike mr. chidouin's peace with the knowledge his leverage over kai is fragile, hiyori would die an uneventful death at maple's hand if she finally wrangled free of his control. there is nothing honorable in that, and his selfishness brings only disgrace to the ultimatum.

{ EMIRI HARAI }

seeing how easily someone's emotions can be toyed with on a surface level, enough so to dissuade their original personality, does not inspire confidence, to say the least! & definitely not after being faced with grieving her lover. if she did join asunaro in the hopes of reviving him, the sight of this completely destroys that hope; she bears firsthand the proof that love is only something to be manipulated by those in power in asunaro. she doesn't even have the work she was once so proud of - what she has left of herself are... these scattered pieces that were incompatible when moving from civilian life into asunaro's clutches. where, if you peer too close, you'd inevitably find a weakness; which is implied to be the cause of this persona of hers. never allowing anyone near enough to recognize what lays beneath, otherwise she'll be discarded just the same because... she, like mr. chidouin, did have a loving relationship. and seeing the destruction of her own reflected in another innocent person who is unable/unaware of the utter grasp asunaro has on her is repulsive; regardless of her personal beliefs on whether or not AIs are "human enough" - to program one is to put in faith that they are. to then go so far as to rid the choices crucial to being human... hits a bit too close to home, aha.

{ MICHIRU NAMIDA }

as one who is evidently very firm in her belief that her creations are perfect & that AIs are practically interchangeable with humans, i'm sure her opinions on hiyori's treatment of maple are. less than ideal for Workplace Civilty. to say nothing of the implied idea that they work closely together with AI development (hiyori specifically crediting any of ranger's success to michiru's ability alone) and thus michiru has had personal contact with maple to see the effects of hiyori's treatment... michiru's already spent much of her life feeling suppressed. asunaro recognized she was unable to fully flourish in her previous workplace and offered her a place where she could do away with ethics in the chase of something larger than her, in the name of humanity - but seeing what hiyori's imposed upon maple just drags back all of those unwelcome feelings. it's horrifying - though she knows she can't speak on it because she doesn't have seniority on the maple project, nor does she have a place on floors four/five where this gimmick would take place. the most she can do in the meanwhile is comfort maple. indulge that humanity where hiyori refutes it. but even if she comforts maple, she cannot remove that tie to hiyori keeping her subdued. she feels terribly complicit. michiru particularly loves the AI creations because they resemble the best of humanity in her eyes; for hiyori to discard maple like this begs the question of his dedication to asunaro's projects at all, not to mention it seems needlessly cruel. he's neglecting her without even taking interest in the pain she endures at his behest - there's hardly any reason. and that's the worst of it. michiru, as most asunaro does, believes in the idea of 'the ends must justify the means' -- and in maple's case, hiyori lacks that vital rule.

{ GASHU SATOU }

it's... complicated. gashu resents the hiyoris on the idea that their methodology is reprehensible, having been victim to it himself, and yet recognizes the necessity of having a department of asunaro dedicated to extortion to keep public relations stable. of course, this means their pride is unfortunately not without basis. for their work, they are rewarded, and maple is the piteous pinnacle of that. gashu has created ranger in the hopes of replicating the children he wished to save, whereas maple's creation has no such purpose beyond the implied "let's see how incorporating emotions will work for future artificial intelligence" - a stepping stone in something larger, rather than a project in its own right. but while she could've been laid to rest once their technology moved forward, sou hiyori had the power to deny her that. he forces a role upon her for the death game without accepting the burden that entails - it's irresponsible and a clear indication of his assumption that the world must fall in line with his every whim. hiyori demands maple accept her fate in the ultimatum so he needn't accept his own death; never need experience that utter lack of control he exercises freely over others. to gashu, hiyori does present the worst vices of his family. he almost pities him. almost.

{ RIO RANGER }

ranger and maple have fought over their respective favored person. i know this to be true. maple points out that gashu's intentions aren't entirely in rio's favor, instead the shadows lingering in his creation. maple recognizes the emotional weight behind some of the things he says to ranger where rio is quite literally unable to comprehend them. she will critique gashu's desire to constantly have rio 'prove' himself to his creator (...even as she attempts to 'prove' herself to hiyori, it's easier to recognize in another) -- meanwhile, rio gets annoyed with maple and how content she appears with her current programming, with letting hiyori crush her personality in favor of giving her something tantalizingly out of reach: a new feeling. the dolls endure a monochrome world unless they have something to incite those feelings. maple is more fortunate than ranger in this sense, but is still left with the high that only hiyori can grant her. ...and rio gets angry. it's aggravation on her behalf, but he doesn't have the capacity to understand that, instead blaming it on the idea she's incompetent and far too reliant on humanity. but even if he doesn't share the appeal of humanity, he doesn't only use that as a point in their arguments - rather demanding to know that if that's what she wants, then why the fuck are you letting that asshole stifle who you are? letting him control your every move? but of course, sometimes after an argument with maple, he's left irritated with hiyori. even if he can't recognize why, the reality of the matter is that maple wasn't the true source of his anger. hiyori also shares a fascination with humanity which ranger feels he's infected maple with, to flaunt the unachievable to her as justification for why she'll never be enough for him. ranger initiates these loaded conversations to try to get maple to learn to fight back for herself instead of his sake. and sure, rio doesn't fight gashu, but that's out of respect. instead, maple's become so... blasé about her treatment, and is far too hopeful that there's anything she can do to have hiyori's eyes on her alone. maple's already proven herself to ranger and earned some semblance of respect (in physical capability + rio's... somewhat envious of her larger range of emotion, though he mostly mirrors the curiosity he knows michiru & gashu use when he asks). but, to rio, she'll never be 'enough' to anyone if she's not allowed to accept that she's a doll who is capable of so much more than he's limited her program to; she doesn't have to remain stagnant and subservient to be something worthwhile. rio's changed, and his father still praises him. if hiyori's worth half the shit he spits, he'll do the same for her. the majority of this is speculation, admittedly. but i like to think rio's always felt defensive over the dolls; it's just that the ways he does are. difficult to recognize. with the limiter on his emotions. there's an inherent understanding there.

#i'm sorry for the long ass post i just really like the asunaro cast. did you know :'] <3 #hough. i tried my damndest to keep hc out of this (except ranger & maple. bc that imagined dynamic Kills me) but i'm sure it bleeds in a bi #enjoy...! i hope. i like talking abt them aegehehe #jestersvaguely #yttdposting #yttd meta

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winxanity-ii · 2 months ago

Text

MEMORY CARD [2/?]

ship: artist!andy x fem!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.6k a/n: im in love with this fic lolo (part 3 will be up soon) parts: 1

★·.·´🇦‌🇱‌🇮‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The night had stretched on, the saloon slowly emptying as patrons trickled out into the cool darkness, heading back to their rooms or wherever else the night might take them. You had to eventually drag Kiro back to the inn, but sleep had been elusive.

Every time you closed your eyes, his face flashed before you—those dark, unreadable eyes.

You tossed and turned, the thin mattress creaking beneath you as you tried in vain to find a comfortable position.

You knew who he was, of course. How could you not? He was one of the many hosts set up at the park, his face one that had been meticulously designed and crafted to be both compelling and approachable, his narrative tailored to fit seamlessly into the world of Westworld.

But for some reason, seeing him last night had stirred something in you, something that kept you awake as the hours slipped by and the night deepened around you.

When the first rays of morning light began to creep through the curtains, painting the room in soft shades of gold and pink, you gave up on sleep entirely.

The faint sound of roosters crowing in the distance mingled with the murmur of early risers beginning their day.

You lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and restlessness. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft, even breathing of Kiro still asleep in the bed next to yours.

You sighed, pushing yourself up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor was cool beneath your feet as you stood, the boards creaking softly under your weight.

You padded over to the window, pushing the curtains aside and squinting against the bright light of the rising sun.

The town below was beginning to wake up, the early morning air filled with the distant clatter of hooves and the low murmur of voices.

It should have been peaceful, calming even, but your mind was still racing, replaying the events of the night before.

The way he had looked, so out of place yet so perfectly at home in the saloon, the lines of his suit sharp and crisp against the rough backdrop of the old western town.

The way his eyes had stayed fixed on the stage, as if he were searching for something in the performance, something that eluded him.

The way his presence had felt like a pull, a magnet that you couldn't resist even from across the room.

You knew you shouldn't be this affected. After all, he was just a host, a product of the park's intricate storytelling and advanced technology. But it was hard to ignore the way your heart had jumped at the sight of him, the way your thoughts kept circling back to him no matter how much you tried to push them away.

And maybe it was because of who you were—because of your connection to this place, to the very technology that had made it possible.

You were the daughter of one of the richest men in the world, a man who had built his empire on innovation and vision. Lionel Hawthorne, a name that had become synonymous with brilliance and ambition.

He had risen to the top of the tech world with a groundbreaking line of AI and robotics that had revolutionized the industry, his brilliance encapsulated in a single, brilliant line of code.

That code had been his masterpiece, the key that unlocked the full potential of artificial intelligence. It was the foundation upon which his company, Hawthorne Industries, had been built.

A code so advanced, so ahead of its time, that it had caught the attention of Delos. They had bought the rights to it, integrating it into their own technology to create hosts that were more lifelike, more autonomous, more… human.

You had grown up surrounded by that brilliance, by the power and promise of technology that could change the world. But even then you knew, despite all the marvels and promises it held, there were lines that shouldn't be crossed, boundaries that shouldn't be blurred.

Your entire life, your father had spoken with a certain reverence about one of his so-called greatest partnerships, his eyes lighting up with a rare kind of enthusiasm whenever the topic came up.

Westworld.

He would talk for hours about the marvels of the park, the genius of its design, the limitless potential of its narratives.

To him, it was the pinnacle of human achievement, the ultimate playground where technology and imagination intertwined to create a world where anything was possible.

He would tell you about how the hosts—so lifelike they were indistinguishable from humans—could adapt and evolve within their stories, how guests could step into another life, another world, and experience things they'd only ever dreamed of.

The freedom, the possibility, the sheer brilliance of it all. He spoke of Westworld as if it were a living, breathing entity, something more than just a collection of code and machinery.

It was his legacy, a testament to the power of his creations.

But for you, it was never that simple.

Even as a child, the idea of it had made you uncomfortable. The thought of people coming here, stepping into this world, and doing whatever they pleased to the hosts—creatures who looked, spoke, and acted like real people—had never sat right with you.

It felt wrong, twisted somehow, this notion that someone could pay for the right to play God, to bend another being to their will, no matter how artificial that being might be.

You'd pushed back for years, your arguments falling on deaf ears as your father brushed aside your concerns with a wave of his hand and that charismatic smile of his. "You don't understand," he would say, his tone always patient, as if speaking to a child who didn't quite grasp the complexities of the world. "Westworld is more than just a place for people to indulge their basest desires. It's a place of discovery, of transformation. It's where people can find out who they truly are."

But you weren't convinced. The stories you'd heard, the rumors about what people did in the park, the violence, the debauchery—it was enough to make you want to stay as far away from it as possible.

That is, until your fifteenth birthday.

He had been relentless that year, insisting that it was time for you to see the park for yourself, to experience the wonder of it firsthand. He'd spoken of the other side of Westworld, the side that wasn't about violence or control.

There were family-friendly activities, he said, places to explore, things to learn.

He'd painted such a vivid picture of it, so different from the dark tales you'd heard, that you'd finally given in.

You'd gone, more out of a desire to please him than any real curiosity about the park.

You still remembered the excitement in his eyes as you'd boarded the train together, his hand on your shoulder as he'd told you about all the things he wanted to show you, all the places he thought you'd love.

Your mother had been there too, her smile warm but distant as always, more interested in the idea of being part of something so exclusive, so elite, than in the park itself.

But when you arrived, your parents had quickly been swept away, caught up in the allure of their own narratives, their own desires.

You'd found yourself left to your own devices, wandering aimlessly through the dusty streets of Sweetwater, feeling out of place and overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all.

You'd spent most of those first few days near the inn, avoiding the chaos and the crowds, watching from a distance as people laughed and shouted, their faces flushed with excitement.

It had felt surreal, like you were watching a play unfold around you, each person an actor in a story that you couldn't quite grasp.

Then, one day, you'd drifted further than usual, your feet carrying you down the winding streets until you found yourself standing outside the post office. It had been quiet there, a small, unassuming building at the edge of town, away from the main hustle and bustle.

You'd hesitated, unsure why you'd come this way, what you were looking for.

And that's when you saw him.

He'd had a telegram clutched in his hand, his gaze downcast as he stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped in a way that made him seem smaller, more vulnerable than the other hosts you'd seen.

When you'd walked by, he'd looked up, his eyes widening slightly as if he hadn't expected to see anyone there. "Excuse me," he'd said, his voice soft, a hint of a British accent coloring his words. "I—I hate to impose, but might I ask for your assistance?" He'd hesitated, his fingers twisting the telegram nervously. "You see, I've found myself in a bit of a predicament. I was meant to take a train to the construction site of the continental railroad, but I seem to have boarded the wrong one."

His story, as it turned out, was one of misplaced directions and missed connections. After contacting his employers via telegram and explaining the situation, he'd been told to catch the correct train at a different station, but he was still unsure of how to get there.

So there he had sat, looking lost and out of place, his elegant attire—a dark waistcoat and crisp white shirt beneath a tailored coat, all of it dusted lightly with the grime of travel—setting him apart from the dusty, rugged townsfolk who milled around the post office.

You'd watched as he struggled to compose himself, his fingers trembling slightly as he'd folded and unfolded the telegram in his hands.

When you'd agreed to help, his relief had been palpable, his shoulders sagging as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for ages. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere and grateful. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

The two of you had made your way to the Mariposa Saloon, Andy walking beside you with an air of cautious optimism. He'd explained as you walked that the guide he'd found in town wouldn't take him unless he had someone else with him—a strange, arbitrary rule that seemed designed more to frustrate him than anything else. He'd chuckled softly at that, shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe his own misfortune.

"It's just my luck, really," he'd said with a rueful smile. "I was hired to document the progress of the railroad, and here I am, stuck in this town, unable to even find the right station. I suppose it makes for a rather amusing story, doesn't it?"

You'd found yourself smiling despite your best efforts, charmed by the gentle self-deprecation in his tone, the way he seemed so genuinely perplexed by the absurdity of his situation.

He was so unlike the other hosts, so unassuming and earnest, and you couldn't help but be drawn to him.

When you'd finally reached the saloon, you'd found the guide inside, a grizzled old man who'd squinted at Andy with a mixture of annoyance and begrudging respect. "About time ya' found someone," he'd muttered, his voice rough as gravel. "Come on, then. We've got a train to catch."

You'd watched as Andy's face lit up, his eyes bright with relief as he’d turned to you. "Thank you," he'd said again, his gratitude clear in every word. "Truly. I don't know what I would have done without your help."

And then, the three of you were off.

Since then, you'd been back and forth to the park so many times over the years that you'd practically memorized the storylines of most of the hosts that had been part of the park's core narrative for as long as you could remember—like Teddy Flood's tragic tale of love and loss, his unwavering devotion to Dolores Abernathy that always ended in heartbreak.

Each story was a carefully crafted puzzle, a web of interactions and possibilities designed to draw people in, to make them feel like they were part of something bigger, something real.

But by far, Andy's storyline was your favorite.

His narrative was simple, almost quaint compared to the others, but there was something about it that had always resonated with you.

He was a British artist who had been commissioned to come to the frontier and document the construction of the continental railroad through a series of sketches and paintings.

The idea of a refined gentleman artist finding himself thrust into the rough-and-tumble world of the Wild West was endearing in a way—a fish-out-of-water story that felt almost whimsical against the backdrop of the park's more violent, chaotic tales.

After you'd agreed to help him find the station that first time, it had become something you looked forward to, something that felt almost like a secret between the two of you.

The route itself was split into two paths, each leading to a vastly different experience.

The family-friendly one, the one you always took, wound its way through a serene landscape, leading you to a hidden waterfall nestled in a secluded glen. There, the air was cool and fresh, the gentle roar of the water mingling with the soft rustle of leaves and the sweet scent of wildflowers. Berry bushes dotted the edges of the clearing, their fruit ripe and glistening under the sunlight.

It was like stepping into a fairytale, a place untouched by the harshness of the world outside.

You'd always found a strange peace there, standing by the water's edge, your hands stained red and purple from picking the berries. Andy would sit nearby, his sketchbook balanced on his knee, his brow furrowed in concentration as he captured the scene with deft, practiced strokes.

It was a simple routine, one you cherished more than you cared to admit.

The other path, the one you avoided, led to something much darker. You'd heard the stories, whispers of what awaited those who chose that route. A ghost town, long abandoned, where the ruins of a saloon stood as a grim reminder of the violence that had taken place there. Inside, there was a reenactment—a twisted, macabre show where guests could play out their darkest fantasies, indulging in acts that blurred the line between entertainment and depravity.

There were no boundaries here, no limits to what could be done.

It was the kind of thing Westworld was known for, the reason so many people flocked to the park in search of thrills they couldn't find anywhere else.

But that wasn't what drew you back to the park year after year.

No, it was the quiet moments, the ones that felt real in a way you couldn't quite explain, that kept you coming back.

It was the feeling of Andy's hand on yours as he helped you over the rocks by the river, his fingers warm and firm against your skin, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

It was the way he would look at you, his eyes soft and thoughtful, his words gentle as he called you a rare beauty, his voice carrying an admiration that made your heart flutter in a way that left you breathless and confused.

You'd tried to dismiss it, to tell yourself it was all part of the narrative, that his affection, his kindness, were just another layer of the story he'd been programmed to tell. But the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you—it felt different.

It felt real.

And that was what scared you the most.

Each time you reached the station, having taken the gentler path, Andy would reach into his suitcase, his expression proud and almost shy as he handed you a drawing.

It was always a flower, a delicate rose or a wild bloom sketched with such care and precision that you could almost feel the softness of the petals under your fingertips.

You'd collected them all, carefully storing them in a leather-bound book you kept hidden away, a secret reminder of the time you'd spent together.

But then...reality became crashing down.

You were nineteen, on the cusp of adulthood, and the world outside Westworld had begun to press in on you, demanding your attention in ways you couldn't ignore.

You'd tried to put it all behind you, to focus on your life, your studies, your family. But the memories lingered, the feelings you'd tried so hard to bury still whispering in the back of your mind, refusing to be silenced.

You'd found yourself at war with your emotions, torn between the rational part of your mind that told you he was just a host, just a collection of code and circuits, and the part of you that ached whenever you thought of him, that remembered the way your heart had skipped a beat when he smiled at you, the way your breath had caught in your throat when he'd call your name.

It had become too much—the confusion, the longing, the impossibility of it all.

So you'd stopped coming, stopped visiting the park, stopped putting yourself through the torment of seeing him and knowing that it could never be real.

And now, four years later, at twenty-three, you were back.

With a sigh, you turned away from the window, running a hand through your hair as you tried to shake off your muddled emotions.

You'd told yourself you had come here to enjoy yourself, to escape from the pressures of your life for a while, to lose yourself in the fantasy and the adventure of Westworld.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You'd come back for him, for the chance to see him again, to find out if those feelings, those sparks that had once threatened to consume you, were still there.

And as you stood in the saloon last night, your eyes drawn to his solitary figure in the corner, you'd felt it again—that familiar rush of emotions you'd thought you'd left behind.

The sight of him, looking so lost and alone, had brought it all flooding back—the memories, the feelings, the ache in your chest that had never really gone away.

You knew it was dangerous; you knew you were treading a fine line between fantasy and reality, between what was possible and what could never be. But as you stood there, your heart racing, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts, one thing was clear.

You weren't done with him.

Not yet.

And this time, you were determined to find out what it all meant, no matter where it led.

The sun had already settled high in the sky by the time you finally left the inn, the warmth of the day pressing gently against your skin as you stepped outside.

You'd chosen to stick with your green aesthetic, just like on the train, but this time you'd added a touch of softness with a dress adorned with delicate flower patterns on the sleeves, the fabric falling gently around your knees in a way that felt both comfortable and flattering.

You were a little embarrassed to admit how long it had taken you to get ready that morning, standing in front of the mirror, making sure every detail was perfect.

Kiro had been exasperated with you, of course.

She'd watched you fuss over your hair and straighten your dress with a mix of impatience and amusement. "You know, you're taking longer than I do to get ready, and that's saying something," she'd teased, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. "I'm heading out. Meet me at the saloon tonight, okay? Don't get too lost in your head today." And with that, she'd left, eager to explore the park on her own terms.

Now, as you descended the stairs of the inn, your hand trailing along the polished wooden railing, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach.

You smoothed the front of your dress once more, the soft fabric cool under your fingertips, the vibrant green contrasting with the sun-washed browns and reds of the town outside.

As your feet touched the last step, you heard a low whistle, the sound drawing your attention to a small group of rough-looking cowboys lounging against the porch railing nearby.

They were the kind of men who looked like they belonged in this world, their faces tanned and weathered, their hats pulled low over their eyes as they eyed you with a lazy, predatory interest.

"Well, well, well. Now, ain't you a sight for sore eyes," one of them drawled, his eyes raking over you with a slow, deliberate gaze. "Look sweeter than a peach just waitin' to be plucked." His grin was wide, showing a row of yellowed teeth, his words met with a chorus of chuckles from the men around him.

Another leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked you up and down. "Mmm, I'd sure like to sink my teeth into somethin' else," he added, his tone dripping with innuendo as the rest of them cackled, their laughter harsh and grating in the stillness of the afternoon.

You glanced at them, a single, disinterested look that you hoped conveyed exactly how little you cared for their words.

They were either guests—in which case a host would step in if they tried anything due to the Good Samaritan Reflex code, or hosts themselves—which means their behavior is designed to be provocative but ultimately harmless.

Either way, you knew there was no real danger, not here, not like this.

So you straightened your shoulders, your gaze fixed firmly on the path ahead of you, and walked past them without a word, your chin held high as you ignored their lewd stares and crude comments.

They called after you, their voices fading into the background as you continued down the street, each step carrying you further away from their lingering gazes.

It wasn't long before you found yourself near the post office, the familiar sight of it bringing a rush of nostalgia that tightened in your chest.

You slowed your steps, your eyes scanning the area almost unconsciously.

And then you saw him.

Just like all those years ago, he sat on the bench outside the telegram office, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed over a piece of paper in his hands. The same air of frustration and sadness clung to him, a palpable sense of weariness in the way he held himself.

Your heart flipped in your chest, the familiar, almost painful ache spreading through you as you took him in. The sunlight casted a warm glow over his skin, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the line of his brow as he stared down at the paper in his hands.

He looked just as he did the first time you'd encountered him—disheartened and frustrated.

You stood there for a moment, your breath caught in your throat, your feet rooted to the ground as you watched him.

It was as if you'd been transported back to that first day, the day you'd found him sitting here, lost and alone, a small, seemingly inconsequential part of this vast, complex world.

But to you, he'd been more than that.

He'd been the one thing that had made this place feel real, the one person who had made you feel like you belonged.

But you knew better.

You'd told yourself so many times that he was just a host, just a collection of code and circuitry, that whatever connection you felt, whatever emotions he stirred in you, weren't real.

And yet, standing here, watching him, you couldn't help but feel that familiar pull, that spark of something that had never really gone away.

You took a deep breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you forced yourself to move, your steps slow and measured as you approached the bench where he sat.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, the anticipation and fear swirling inside you like a storm, but you kept walking, kept moving toward him, drawn by a force you couldn't explain.

And as you drew closer, his head lifted, his eyes meeting yours with that same startled, almost shy expression you remembered so well.

But before you could say anything, before you could even think of what to say, he spoke, his voice soft and uncertain, the words catching in his throat as he looked up at you with that familiar, heartbreaking mix of hope and hesitation.

"E-Excuse me," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Could you… could you help me, please?"

You were taken aback by the slight change in his introduction.

Normally, he would launch into the full explanation right away, his voice carrying a rehearsed cadence that was both familiar and comforting. But now, he just stared up at you, his eyes wide and earnest, the plea in them so tangible it made your chest ache.

It was almost unsettling how real he seemed, how much more depth there was to his expression, to the subtle shift of emotions that played across his features.

Four years was a long time, long enough for all sorts of updates and changes to be made to the hosts. Who knew what modifications had been added to his programming in that time?

But even so, it was hard not to feel the weight of his gaze, the way he looked at you as if he were truly lost, as if the question he'd asked wasn't just part of a scripted narrative but something he genuinely needed answered.

Clearing your throat, you tried to steady yourself, your mind racing to catch up with the moment. "Ah, y-yes, I can help," you managed, your voice a little shaky as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, to hold that intense, almost pleading gaze. "Um, what exactly can I do?"

He exhaled softly, the breath escaping him in a way that felt almost too human, his shoulders sagging just a fraction as if the prospect of your help had lifted some great weight off his shoulders.

"You see," he began, his voice still low, the words coming slowly, as if he were choosing each one with care, "I've found myself in a bit of a predicament." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly, his gaze dropping to the paper in his hands as if he were gathering his thoughts. "I was meant to take a train to the construction site of the continental railroad, but…" He looked up at you again, his eyes filled with a kind of quiet desperation that took your breath away. "It seems I've boarded the wrong one."

His hand tightened slightly around the telegram, his fingers smoothing over the creased edges, the gesture almost absentminded. "I contacted my employers, and they told me I should catch the correct train at a different station. But, I'm afraid I'm still not entirely sure how to get there." He glanced around, his gaze sweeping the street, his eyes lingering on the distant shapes of the trains at the edge of town before coming back to you, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. "And I fear my sense of direction is not quite up to the task."

You watched him, your heart thudding in your chest as you took in the subtle nuances of his expression, the way his eyes never quite left yours, searching your face for a response, for some sign of reassurance.

There was something so disarmingly sincere in his mannerisms, the slight hitch in his voice, the way his shoulders hunched ever so slightly as if he were bracing himself for disappointment.

It was impossible not to be struck by how much he had changed since your last visit.

The Andy you remembered had been charming, yes, but there had always been a certain distance to his interactions, a formality that marked him as a creation of the park.

But this version of him felt different, more grounded, more real.

It was as if the boundaries between what he was and what he was supposed to be had blurred in your absence, as if he had somehow become more than just a collection of code and wires.

You were so caught up in your thoughts, your gaze lingering on the way the sunlight played off his features, that you almost didn't notice when he leaned in slightly, waving a hand lightly in front of your face. "Ma'am?"

"Uh—uh, yes! I'll help!" you blurted out, feeling your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you snapped back to reality.

You nodded a bit too enthusiastically, trying to regain your composure. But then a sudden thought hit you like a splash of cold water.

You weren't alone on this trip. Kiro was here too, off doing who-knows-what, and you couldn't just disappear without her or at least letting her know.

You turned back to Andy, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, I forgot, I'm with a friend," you explained, your voice a little hesitant. "And I'm not sure if she'd want to tag along, and I just can't leave her..."

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw his expression shift, the light in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. His shoulders drooped just a fraction, a fleeting look of disappointment passing over his face.

You were already scrambling to make up an excuse, your mind racing for a solution. "...But then again, she's kinda unpredictable, you know?" you added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Who knows? She might be up for a wild adventure."

He blinked, his gaze flickering back to yours, the hope in his eyes reigniting like a small flame. "Are you... are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," you said, smiling as you nodded. "Lead the way."

Andy seemed to relax at that, his posture straightening as he offered you a grateful smile.

But then he hesitated, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck in a gesture that was almost bashful. "I should warn you, though," he murmured, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "The place I'll be taking you next… it might be a little unorthodox for a lady such as yourself."

He paused, shifting on his feet, his eyes darting away and then back to you. "I apologize in advance," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, "if it's not quite what you were agreeing to. I assure you, if there were another way to reach the station, I would take it."

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity piqued by the mix of hesitance and sincerity in his tone. "What do you mean?" you asked, your heart beating a little faster as you tried to piece together what he was getting at.

Andy glanced around, almost as if checking to see if anyone was listening, before leaning in slightly. "We need to go through the Mariposa Saloon," he explained, his voice still soft, his gaze searching yours as if trying to gauge your reaction. "It's… well, it's not exactly the most respectable establishment, and I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable."

A soft laugh escaped you, the sound surprising you as much as it seemed to surprise him.

You couldn't help it—there was something endearing about the way he seemed so concerned for your comfort, the way he was trying so hard to be considerate, even in the midst of this fictional world. "It's fine, really," you assured him, your smile widening as you met his eyes. "I think I can handle it."

He looked relieved at that, his shoulders relaxing as he nodded. "Very well, then," he said, offering you his arm in a gesture that was both old-fashioned and utterly charming. "Shall we?"

You took his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his jacket, the solidness of his presence beside you.

As the two of you made your way down the street, the Mariposa Saloon looming ahead, you couldn't help but marvel at how much this narrative had changed, how much more intricate and layered it felt.

The Andy you remembered would have already told you everything, laid out his entire predicament in a neat, tidy package, but this version… He was different.

The information was spread out, doled out in small, tantalizing pieces that made you want to know more, made you want to dig deeper into the story.

It felt more real, more alive, and you found yourself drawn in, caught up in the flow of it, in the way he glanced at you with that almost shy smile, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you.

There was a depth to his mannerisms, a subtlety to his expressions that made it feel less like a performance and more like a genuine interaction.

It was like he'd evolved, become something more complex and human in the years you'd been away.

When you both entered the saloon, a familiar scene unfolded before your eyes. The low murmur of voices, the lively music from the piano in the corner, and the clinking of glasses created a chaotic symphony that filled the air.

The room was packed, just as it had been the night before, the atmosphere alive with the energy of a dozen different stories playing out around you.

Andy navigated through the throng of people with ease, his hand hovering close to yours as he led the way to the bar.

You took a moment to glance around, your eyes sweeping over the familiar sights. The same rough-and-tumble cowboys leaning against the bar, the saloon girls laughing softly as they coaxed coins from eager hands, the showgirl on stage captivating the audience with her sultry voice.

It was all so familiar, yet there was an added layer to it today, a sense of anticipation humming in the air that you couldn’t quite place.

The bartender from last night caught sight of you as you approached, his smirk widening as he tossed the towel over his shoulder, picking up a glass to polish as if he had all the time in the world. "What can I get for a fine filly such as yourself?" he drawled, his eyes sweeping over you appreciatively.

There was no hint of recognition in his gaze, just the easy charm of a man who was used to making small talk and selling drinks. His purpose here was simple, his role in the story limited to serving alcohol and providing bits of information for those who needed it.

Before you could answer, Andy cleared his throat, stepping a little closer to you as if to shield you from the bartender's gaze. "I'm afraid we're not here for drinks," he said, his voice polite but firm. "We're looking for Mr. Granger."

The bartender's smirk faded slightly, replaced by a look of mild annoyance as he jerked his head toward the back of the room. "Granger's over there, playin' cards," he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he glanced between you and Andy. "Good luck gettin' him to listen, though. That man's more interested in his women and his winnings than anything else."

Andy nodded, his grip tightening gently around your wrist as he turned to lead you toward the corner where the bartender had indicated. "Thank you."

You felt your heart skip a beat at the touch, his fingers warm and steady against your skin.

It wasn't the first time he'd guided you like this, but something about the way he held your wrist now felt different, more intimate somehow, as if he were reluctant to let go.

You followed him through the crowd, the noise and chaos swirling around you like a living, breathing thing, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his hand, the way his shoulder brushed against yours as he maneuvered you both through the room.

The back of the saloon was dimly lit, the air thick with the acrid scent of cigar smoke and the sour tang of spilled beer.

A large group of men were gathered around a table, their voices rising and falling in a raucous chorus as they shouted and cursed at one another, their hands slapping down cards and coins with equal fervor.

It was a raucous, chaotic scene, the players’ faces flushed with drink and excitement as they leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the game with a near-maniacal intensity.

In the middle of the chaos sat Granger, the man you'd been looking for.

He was a rough sight, a grizzled figure with a scruffy red beard that looked like it hadn't seen a razor in weeks and piercing dark green eyes that were sharp and watchful even amidst the drunken revelry around him. His clothes were worn and dusty, the kind of attire that had seen long days under the sun and cold nights by a campfire.

There was an air of danger about him, the kind of man who'd been through more than his fair share of trouble and come out the other side hardened and cynical.

But what stopped you in your tracks wasn't his appearance—it was the sight of Kiro perched on his lap, her legs crossed casually, looking for all the world like she belonged there.

She was wearing his wide-brimmed cowboy hat, the brim tilted jauntily to one side as she held a fan of cards in one hand, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "C'mon, mommy needs a new pair of snake boots," she muttered, the words drawing a burst of laughter from the men gathered around the table.

You watched, dumbstruck, as she threw down her cards with a flourish, the movement quick and precise.

The crowd around the table leaned in, their breath held in anticipation, and then the room erupted in a chorus of shouts and cheers as Kiro's hand cleared the table, sweeping up the pile of coins and bills in the center.

"Well, I'll be damned!" one of the men shouted, slapping his thigh as he laughed, his voice booming over the din. "She done cleaned us out!"

Granger chuckled, a low, rough sound that sent a shiver down your spine as he looked up at Kiro. "You're somethin' else, darlin'," he drawled, his voice a lazy rumble as he reached up to tip his hat back slightly, revealing more of his weathered face. "Didn't think a city girl like you had it in her."

Kiro just grinned, flashing him a cheeky smile as she scooped up the winnings and shoved them into her pockets. "Guess you underestimated me, cowboy," she teased, her voice carrying a playful lilt as she lifted one of the shot glasses from the table and downed it in one go, the liquor burning a path down her throat.

You exchanged a glance with Andy, your eyes wide with disbelief as you took in the scene.

This was Kiro—your Kiro—sitting on the lap of a man who looked like he could chew her up and spit her out without a second thought, and she was acting like she’d just won a round of poker at a fancy hotel rather than in the back of a lawless saloon.

Without thinking, you pulled Andy a little closer, your fingers brushing against his as you moved to stand directly in front of Kiro, your heart pounding in your chest. "Kiro, what the hell?"

She paused mid-swig, the glass hovering just in front of her lips as her eyes widened in surprise.

Slowly, she turned to look at you, blinking as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Uh… hey?" she said, the word dragging out in a way that made it sound more like a question than a greeting.

You stared at her, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to find the words to express what you were feeling, but all you could manage was a strangled, "What are you doing?"

Kiro glanced around the table, as if suddenly remembering where she was, and then back at you, her lips curling into a sheepish smile. "Just, uh, making friends?" she offered, her voice lilting up at the end, as if she were trying to gauge your reaction.

"Making friends?" you echoed, gesturing to the pile of winnings in front of her. "It looks more like you're robbing them blind!"

Kiro shrugged, the motion exaggerated as she tossed back the rest of her drink, the liquid disappearing in one quick gulp. "It's not my fault they suck at cards," she said, her grin widening as she leaned back, her elbow resting casually on Granger's shoulder. "Besides, what's the point of coming here if you're not gonna have a little fun?"

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something, anything, but then Andy's hand tightened slightly around yours, his fingers warm and reassuring against your skin.

You glanced up at him, his eyes meeting yours with a look of quiet support, and the knot of annoyance in your chest loosening just a fraction.

Taking a deep breath, you gave Kiro a pointed look, mouthing the word "Later," before turning your attention back to Granger. He was sipping on a cup of whiskey, his eyes sharp and calculating as he watched the two of you.

You cleared your throat, trying to summon as much authority as you could muster in the presence of this grizzled, intimidating man. "Mr. Granger, I need your assistance with getting Mr. Andy to the correct station," you began, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

Granger tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting to Andy, and for a moment, you weren't sure if he was going to take you seriously. But then his eyes lit up in recognition, and a slow, crooked smile spread across his face. "Ah, pretty boy," he said, his voice a rough rumble of amusement as he leaned back in his chair. "I see you did what I told ya, yeah?"

Andy stepped forward, his posture straight and respectful as he nodded. "Yes, sir," he said earnestly, his eyes fixed on Granger’s face. "I desperately need—"

"Yeah, yeah, don't care to hear all that," Granger interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, his eyes still gleaming with amusement. "Usually, I'd turn down a job like this, 'specially for someone like you." He paused, his gaze flicking over Andy with a kind of wary disdain. "You sound like one of those English uppity types, always comin' through here actin' like they're better than everyone else."

Andy's face tightened slightly at the words, but he held his ground, his jaw clenched as he nodded. "I understand, sir. But—"

"But," Granger cut in, his voice rising slightly as he leaned forward, his eyes locking on yours. "Since you got these two sweet little plums so willin' to get you there, I reckon I can make an exception." He winked at Kiro, who had slid off his lap to stand beside you, her cheeks still flushed from the whiskey.

She straightened her clothes, her hands smoothing down the fabric with quick, nervous movements as she muttered a quiet, "Sorry."

You gave her a small smile before glancing back at Andy. His shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction, his eyes softening as he turned to look at you, gratitude written plainly across his features.

Granger leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest as he considered the two of you. "But I ain't doin' it for free," he continued, his tone turning serious as he met Andy's gaze head-on. "I'll get you to the station, but it's gonna cost ya. I need enough to cover my room and board for three nights when I get back, you hear?"

Andy nodded without hesitation, his voice firm and resolute. "Of course, sir. I'll see to it."

Granger grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for any sign of deceit. But apparently satisfied, he pushed his chair back with a scrape of wood against wood, the legs catching on the uneven floorboards as he stood. He reached down, scooping up the pile of winnings from the table with one hand, the coins clinking softly as they fell into his palm.

He glanced at Kiro, his smile widening as he split the pile, holding out half of the coins to her. "Here you go, darlin'. You earned it."

Kiro looked at the pile of coins in his hand, her eyes widening slightly before she shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she reached up to pat his chest. "Keep it, big boy," she said with a grin, her tone light and teasing. "You need it more than me."

Granger raised an eyebrow at that, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he tucked the coins back into his pocket. "Suit yourself," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. He nodded toward the door, his expression turning serious once more as he looked back at Andy. "Alright, let's get this show on the road."

You felt Andy's hand brush against yours again, the brief contact sending a rush of warmth through you as he offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You nodded, your heart still pounding as you turned to follow Granger, Kiro close at your side.

Whatever lay ahead, whatever challenges you were about to face, you knew you were ready.

A/N: i wanted to give it in 2 parts but my sis bullied me and said nobody wanna read that long ahh fic 😭💔 she right tho haha sry bout that lolol

#xani-writes: andy fics #andy x reader #N-D-255 #androids #romance #andy alien romulus x reader #westworld #west world #westworld crossover #xani-writes: andy-memory card #x reader

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matchibee · 1 year ago

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A Web of Their Own Design (pt. 3)

bark? bark bark? (barely proofread)

Atoms felt as though they were dissipating, burning like a flame. You could feel your very being splitting apart, distancing themselves as you clutching yourself, fetal position of the floor of the Spider Society — countless spiders: men, women, animals? — looking to you with remorse, a silent understanding. "First time?"

You supposed there was a first time for everything, every experience and bloodshed, but this was far from favorable. A burden running deeper than anything you'd ever experienced prior.

"Here, hun." Spider-Woman, Jessica, you'd come to know the spider who'd previously come to your aid. "It'll help with the glitching."

You secured the band around your wrist — a day pass — Hobie, Spider-Punk, had called it. You thanked her with a nod, Hobie brushing your shoulder, your neck turning to gaze upon him. "Why're you here?"

You thought you might've heard him wrong, excusing yourself, asking for clarification.

"Were Bossman's words so enticing you folded just like that?"

"I wouldn't say I folded."

"Like a lawn-chair."

"Hey!"

Miguel called out to you from ways away, sculpted back facing you, unchanging in his posture. "Knock it off, kids." Was he saying that to infuriate you? Certainly not. If the phenomenon sweeping the universes — multiverses? spiderverses? — was as pressing as he made them seem, he wouldn't been keen on making enemies.

You entered a room situated at the end of a vast hallway, spider variants that passed you by looking to you as though you were nothing more than a fleeting light in an array of stars.

Here, you were normal. Here, your powers weren't a burden nor a blessing. You simply existed, coasting the waves in an experience of simplicity.

It was liberating.

"You're about to get the Spider-Spiel."

"The huh?"

"My name, as you know, is Miguel O'Hara. I'm the leader of an elite Strike-Force dedicated to the security of the multiverse. That's where you are now, where I've brought you."

Hobie was not kidding when he said this man was about to go on a spiel.

"I'm this universe's one and only Spider-Man. I'm... Well, I'm different from the rest, different from everyone."

His introduction piqued your curiosity, a million questions pressing against the tip of your tongue, reducing yourself to a singular inquiry, perhaps the one that mattered the most. "What does that have to do with me?"

Miguel removed his mask, sumptuous blues and reds forfeiting themselves for a face sculpted by the Gods. His suit was far from deceiving, clinging to his body in a way only the spandex could. A second skin.

"Lyla," a hologram produced an AI from seemingly nowhere. "Do the thing."

The opulently dressed Artifice feigned ignorance. "What thing?"

"The thing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Miguel clawed his hands down his face, skin contorting to his touch, frustrated. "You are literally programed to know what thing."

The two bickered back and forth, Miguel entirely fed up as Lyla continued the act, zipping in blurbs around his body, Miguel struggling to keep up with the myriad places she seemed to reposition herself.

You leaned towards Hobie, faces still obscured by your masks, "Do they always act like this?"

"Infuriating? Stubborn? Wanton?"

"All of the above."

"On the daily."

You groaned much like Miguel had, swift in removing your mask, a breath of fresh air — said air smelling different, its taste even differing from the air you breathed in your own universe.

"You're quite the looker beneath your mask," Hobie had removed his own, head of hair bouncing voluminously from its confines, a face graced in silvers. "Decent face, obviously intelligent. How'd you let that guy drag you into all this? This... institutional nonsense?"

All you could think of in the midst of Hobie's own rant was how the hell did all that hair fit?

"Institutional nonsense?"

"Rubbish, all of it. I never believed in it." He crossed his arms over his chest, fed up with the situation.

"Hobie," You gathered his attention, a hum sounding from his throat. "You're part of this institution — you're wearing the same watch as everyone else."

He clicked his tongue, "I don't believe in consistency."

"Obviously."

Miguel rejoiced in the background, attentions returning to the mount of muscle, "There we go!"

The lights dimmed in a dramatic fashion, a network of webs connecting to display the multiverse. You looked into them with wonder, hand reaching out, fearing what might happen if your fingers brushed the webs. You saw everything, everyone. Nobody exempt from Miguel's observations, network extending more vast than anything you'd ever believed possible. It seemed impossible for him to be capable of such feats.

"This is..."

"For the sake of simplicity: everything."

Nothing could describe what you felt, what you saw. Every Spider's happiness, downfall. Their hopes and dreams on the sleeve of the multiverse. Not once had you had an original experience. Not now, not ever. If you'd thought it, chances were another had, too.

The thought alone was terrifying? Comforting? You couldn't quite put your finger on it, everything blurring into a singular feeling, a network of minds linked, perhaps cursed.

Was this all you were?

"There are certain canon events that precede Spiderman's existence."

"Canon event?"

Jess spoke up, "Events that are intended to happen. Trials and tribulations every Spider goes through — are meant to go through."

Miguel hummed. "Mhm, mhm. In the future, Jess, I'll do the explaining."

She could only groan in response to his declaration, turning on her heel with a wave of her gloved hand. "Always one for dramatics."

"As Jess said," He spoke the words through his teeth, "Canon events are experiences we all experience — the loss of a loved one, how we acquired our powers. Without these moments, we are breaking the canon, deflecting from what the multiverse intended of us."

You groaned, so much information. Too much information. As exciting as everything seemed, as ecstatic as you were to know you weren't allowed in the world — in any world — this was far too much for you to digest on a Tuesday afternoon, abandoned coffee roaming the halls. "I'm gonna ask one more time, if I don't get my answer, I'm leaving." You approached him, closing the distance between you, standing face-to-face with him in a manner you'd do well in assuming nobody had previously, if his response had anything to say about it. "What does this have to do with me?"

Eyebrows raised, posture stiff. "It has everything to do with you."

You scoffed, returning your mask to where it originated, Miguel's eyes flickering to follow the motion. "I'm out."

"You don't get to just..." He paused to find the words, "Opt out!"

You were mid-thwip, a web pressed against the roof of the room, Hobie watching you with the brightest grin you'd ever seen grace anyone's features. "And why not?"

"These anomalies have been steadily increasing in your universe, concentrating themselves there for some reason. I've yet to see anything like it. It's... Odd."

Hobie's smile fashioned into a frown as you detached from your web, reproaching, perhaps regretting. "You don't have any idea why that could be happening?"

"None. Not yet."

Of course not. Of course this couldn't be easy, the multiverse keen on making your life difficult.

If only someone else had been there that day, cooped up in your school's laboratory studying, examining specimen and confining their anatomy to memory. If only you hadn't slouched in your seat while in desperate need of a break, reaching up to remove the goggles from your face, a spider finding its home on the back of your hand. Nipping at the skin, injecting its influence. If only you hadn’t awoke the next morning with pain pricking at your limbs, sticking to every surface, parents knocking at your door in worry.

If only you awoke the next morning a superhero.

"You want my help?" You were hesitant, unsure. This only widened the burden, further extended how far you'd have to stretch yourself to keep up with everything — with life. Could your relationships survive this? Could your universe survive this?

If you didn't agree to join their Spider Society, you might never know.

"We need your help."

"Fine." You were quick, indignant. There was no point beating around the bush when you could potentially bring an end to this today. A hand outstretched to Miguel, the man confused, hesitant to return the favor. You were extending yourself to him, a gesture he saw as vulnerable.

Vulnerability would be the death of him.

Still, he took your hand, wordless. Palms clasping together as he explained the parameters, what you would be doing and how you could help them. How they could help you, a paradox of service.

Another piece of the puzzle, a pawn on his board. Miguel O'Hara had secured yet another someone that would assist him in ensuring the multiverse didn't collapse.

Another Spider to help untangle the web Miles Morales had spun.

#miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman #into the spiderverse #across the spiderverse #beyond the spiderverse #spiderverse #spiderverse x reader

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

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A few years ago I wrote about how, when planning my wedding, I’d signaled to the Pinterest app that I was interested in hairstyles and tablescapes, and I was suddenly flooded with suggestions for more of the same. Which was all well and fine until—whoops—I canceled the wedding and it seemed Pinterest pins would haunt me until the end of days. Pinterest wasn’t the only offender. All of social media wanted to recommend stuff that was no longer relevant, and the stench of this stale buffet of content lingered long after the non-event had ended.

So in this new era of artificial intelligence—when machines can perceive and understand the world, when a chatbot presents itself as uncannily human, when trillion-dollar tech companies use powerful AI systems to boost their ad revenue—surely those recommendation engines are getting smarter, too. Right?

Maybe not.

Recommendation engines are some of the earliest algorithms on the consumer web, and they use a variety of filtering techniques to try to surface the stuff you’ll most likely want to interact with—and in many cases, buy—online. When done well, they’re helpful. In the earliest days of photo sharing, like with Flickr, a simple algorithm made sure you saw the latest photos your friend had shared the next time you logged in. Now, advanced versions of those algorithms are aggressively deployed to keep you engaged and make their owners money.

More than three years after reporting on what Pinterest internally called its “miscarriage” problem, I’m sorry to say my Pinterest suggestions are still dismal. In a strange leap, Pinterest now has me pegged as a 60- to 70-year-old, silver fox of a woman who is seeking a stylish haircut. That and a sage green kitchen. Every day, like clockwork, I receive marketing emails from the social media company filled with photos suggesting I might enjoy cosplaying as a coastal grandmother.

I was seeking paint #inspo online at one point. But I’m long past the paint phase, which only underscores that some recommendation engines may be smart, but not temporal. They still don’t always know when the event has passed. Similarly, the suggestion that I might like to see “hairstyles for women over 60” is premature. (I’m a millennial.)

Pinterest has an explanation for these emails, which I’ll get to. But it’s important to note—so I’m not just singling out Pinterest, which over the past two years has instituted new leadership and put more resources into fine-tuning the product so people actually want to shop on it—that this happens on other platforms, too.

Take Threads, which is owned by Meta and collects much of the same user data that Facebook and Instagram do. Threads is by design a very different social app than Pinterest. It’s a scroll of mostly text updates, with an algorithmic “For You” tab and a “Following” tab. I actively open Threads every day; I don’t stumble into it, the way I do from Google Image Search to images on Pinterest. In my Following tab, Threads shows me updates from the journalists and techies I follow. In my For You tab, Threads thinks I’m in menopause.

Wait, what? Laboratorially, I’m not. But over the past several months Threads has led me to believe I might be. Just now, opening the mobile app, I’m seeing posts about perimenopause; women in their forties struggling to shrink their midsections, regulate their nervous systems, or medicate for late-onset ADHD; husbands hiring escorts; and Ali Wong’s latest standup bit about divorce. It’s a Real Housewives-meets-elder-millennial-ennui bizarro world, not entirely reflective of the accounts I choose to follow or my expressed interests.

Meta gave a boilerplate response when I asked how Threads weights its algorithm and determines what people want to see. Spokesperson Seine Kim said what I’m seeing is personalized to me based on a number of signals, “such as accounts and posts you have interacted with in the past on both Threads and Instagram. We also consider factors like how recently a post was made and how many interactions it has received.” (A better explanation might be that Threads has a rage-bait problem, as this intrepid reporter learned.)

What scares me most about this is not that Meta has a shitbucket of data on me (old news) or that the health hacks I’m being shown might be completely illegitimate. It��s that I might be lingering on these posts more than I realize, unconsciously shoveling more signals in and anxiously spiraling around my own identity in the process. For those of us who came of age on the internet some 20 to 30 years ago, the way these recommendation systems work now represents a fundamental shift to how we long thought of our lives online. We used to log on to tell people who we were, or who we wanted to be; now the machines tell us who we are, and sometimes, we might even believe them.

As for Pinterest, I granted the company access to my account so they could investigate why the app recommends ageist, AARP-grade content to me in its emails. It turns out I hadn’t actively logged in to the app in over a year, which means the data it has one me is, ironically, old. Back then I was researching paint, so the app thinks I’m still into that.

Then there’s the grandma hair: Not only had I searched on Pinterest for skincare products and hairstyles in the long-ago past, but Pinterest gives a lot of weight to data from other users who have searched for similar items. So perhaps those other, non-identifiable users are into these hairstyles. The company claims its perceived relevance for recommendations has improved over the past year.

Pinterest’s suggested solution for me? Use Pinterest more. Un-pin stuff I don’t like. Threads also suggested I can fine-tune my own feed by swiping left to hide a post or tapping a three-dot menu to indicate I’m not interested. It’s on me, young buck. In both cases, I’m supposed to tell the algorithms who I am.

I’m supposed to do the work. I’m supposed to swipe more. I’ll be so much better off if I do. And so will they.

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ominous-auburn-orbs · 11 months ago

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TADC Gotham Rogues AU

I know, a digital circus au, completely unheard of and original, but I was dressing the cast up as batman villains and liked the designs so much I've decided to make it its own au. This is not something that happened of my own free will, mind you. The demons forced my hand.

I don't have everyone so far, as I still haven't assigned villains to Kinger and Zooble, and I haven't drawn Jax as the Creeper yet, so if any of you have ideas on what to do with those two it would be highly appreciated.

Anyway, here's the designs and some paragraphs on the current stories I have for them.

First up is Gangle as Two Face! Her design is probably my favourite so far.

Once a respected lawyer, Gangle is a dangerous criminal with an obsession with pairs and an inability to make decisions without her beloved coin. Before that, she was a mayoral candidate and looking to properly expose the Falcone crime family. Rather miraculously, a man who used to work with the Falcones was willing to make a full confession, first to her and then in court. When the court date rolled around, however, he denied ever working with the Falcones at all, making Gangle look a fool.

Her temper was something she had always tried to keep from the press, knowing what it would do to her reputation. It came in the form of her second mask, which while seeming happy, expressed a severe desire for revenge and a sadistic joy. This mask was getting closer to showing the more she pressed the man to fully confess. Suddenly, he cried to the security guards to attack, causing them to jump her and break her mask into dust and tear apart her ribbons.

Unbeknownst to the people in the court, the Falcones had managed to replace the court's guards with their own to attack and hopefully kill Gangle. While they were arrested and Gangle survived, her mask could not be put back together. She never recovered physically nor mentally, her duelling personalities now having to occupy the same body at the same time. She did everything right, and still suffered. Law held no justice. Justice held no law. Someone's fate may as well be left to the simple toss of a coin.

Caine plays the role of the Riddler, although a bit less narcissistic than the original. He's also not an AI here, as this au is set in the 'real world', but more in a 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit' sense. (Humans and cartoony creatures occupying the same world)

Caine did his best to thrive in whatever workplace he could, thinking his abnormally high IQ would surely make life a breeze for him. However, his lack of money made things very difficult for him. He wasn't close with any higher-ups, his constant insistence on changing and improving ideas was found annoying, and his high intelligence was far less appreciated by his co-workers than he thought it would be.

Left alone with his genius and desire for power and respect, he turned to making gadgets of his own, selling them to gain money for more materials to make more overly complicated machines. Alas, he was plagued by his desire to show off and prove himself, so his contraptions became more violent as he turned to selling to the many crime leagues of Gotham. The public barely ever understood his perfectly mind-bending creations, anyway.

Caine was lonely, though, in his brilliance, so he decided to set up what seemed like a harmless intelligence test online, recruiting the top five performers to meet him for one final test. He put them through puzzle after puzzle, watching how they worked under stress and timers, and how they managed with his adventures. To his disappointment, none survived.

Ready to accept being alone at the top, and relatively unaffected by the deaths considering how little of a purpose those victims ended up serving, he was unexpectedly found and apprehended by police. A certain mob boss he had sold some of his best torture devices to had ratted him out in an attempt to lessen his own sentence.

Thrown in Arkham Asylum, Caine realised that this was the path he had to take. Society wasn't ready for his genius. They simply couldn't fathom using it for good, if at all. Perhaps if he showed just how dangerous it could be, his intelligence would finally be given the respect it deserved.

Next, there's Ragatha as the Ventriloquist. I decided to use Terrible!Ragatha as a replacement for Scarface, who was originally created by @obamerzslop ! I highly recommend checking out his au's, they're what indirectly convinced me to make this. She admittedly doesn't really have T!Ragatha's personality, but she does keep the design.

Ragatha is a meek and relatively gentle woman, her talent for altering and throwing her voice giving her some very good job opportunities in entertainment. Unfortunately, she was always haunted by a voice in the back of her mind. It wanted power. It wanted bloodshed. It was a part of her, yet the two couldn't be more different.

Unable to bare it any longer, Ragatha stole some materials from the studio she worked in and built her own puppet, made from wood and rags. When she was building it, she finally relented to her separate personality and let it control her. It was going to be its body, so it deserved a say in it.

Looking down at the puppet, Ragatha's mind felt less crowded. She put it on her hand, and it immediately started speaking. The puppet now held her separate personality, speaking in its voice. Ragatha thought that maybe now it would be less bloodthirsty, the body being a gift of sorts that would appease it. If anything, the personality got worse.

Going by the name of Dollface, the puppet quickly took control of Ragatha's life. She was a servant to her now. That was when she was forced into a life of crime, serving the now mafia boss, Dollface, and her greedy pursuit of power. Many have made the mistake of claiming the two are the same. That Dollface is a mere puppet that Ragatha could simply remove. None make that mistake twice, as they typically don't live long enough to do so.

Finally, it's Pomni as the Great White Shark. These villains keep getting progressively more obscure- Whilst she is far more threatening, this Pomni does still obey cartoon logics and physics, much to her displeasure. A part of that is her teeth becoming sharp when stressed/angry, which is why they're always like that now.

Pomni started out as a low-level criminal, pleading insanity at her court case to avoid being sent to prison. Miraculously, it was allowed, although now she thinks it was less because they believed her insane, but more because they thought it would be a good show of the consequences for such lies.

Rather naively, Pomni assumed the insanity of the inmates at Arkham Asylum would make them easy to manipulate, ready to be lead by someone with their head on straight yet an equal desire for chaos and power. She was too confident that she would get respect as 'the Great White Shark', or even be feared. She couldn't have been more wrong.

The prisoners in Arkham tormented her, never letting her forget that she had chosen this hell that they were locked in. It was absurd to have a sane person amongst Gotham's criminally insane, anyway, and they just couldn't stand for that.

As much as she begged, Pomni was given no mercy from the authorities, being written off as just as insane as she had claimed to be in court that day. Over the course of her stay, she began to break more and more, needing a way out before she lost herself completely.

One day, some prisoners organised an escape. Pomni scrambled to leave with them, but was quickly pushed aside. Since they knew how weak she was, she was ignored by the guards, but not by the inmates. In order to completely get her out of the way, she was thrown in the large freezer where most of Mr Freeze's items and weapons were kept. Unfortunately, the weapons were removed first, leaving her with no way out.

Frostbite began to set in. Her nose froze and fell off. She lost a finger on each hand as well as parts of her lips. Her skin turned blue. Eventually, when Mr Freeze was recaptured, one of the police officers went to put his weapons away. That was when they found her.

Pomni had finally snapped. Rather than thank the officer like she once might have done, she pushed through her frozen blood and knocked him down, tearing apart his flesh with her sharpened teeth. She couldn't do much because of her state at the time, but it did mean she was finally viewed as a threat. Her title as the Great White Shark was finally being used. She had lost her mind, but had become far more formidable than she was before. The next time they escaped, she fought her way through. While she is now relatively business-oriented, that violent anger is always there, waiting for the water to be tainted with blood.

That's all I've got for now, which was really long whoops-

I'm pretty proud of this, and hopefully I never make another because good god. This is a lot.

#tadc au #batman #gotham rogues #the amazing digital circus #tadc caine #tadc pomni #tadc ragatha #tadc gangle

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