#nopros

[calamitaswrath]

Im proud of you for making so much progress, keep on going

🫡

[zero-g-mech]

universal third person pronoun that means "she/he/they/it", i love you.

[biglisbonnews]

2023 Venice Immersive Selections Revealed (NEWSWIRE) 44 projects from 25 countries and 24 worlds in the Worlds GalleryContinue reading on No Proscenium » https://noproscenium.com/2023-venice-immersive-selections-revealed-newswire-59c8e5e33634

[cipheramnesia]

Graft

In my rest time between one novel and the next I'm enjoying myself making a little spun sugar story about a cyberpunk pussy heist. It's meandering and heavy on imaginary slang but it's fun for me so here is the first half or third or so of it

First thing DeeDee noticed, her usual morning orgasm, or "morgasm," hadn't gone off.

She was late, and splashers crowded her A/V specs, screaming flashing neon yellow red blue promises, 10 water rat guaranteed each spin, stop here twenty percent off premium-vu, act now to get free oxy-sub, plus about fifteen past due blasters for her leg mods, dayclix, manudex upgrade, face plate, other parts. She could see a narrow sliver of her room through the MAds, and she had a scrips balance lockout from the cockout. Groaning with irritation, clawed her way off the cot to the 12-key hardline, unfolded her tongue socket and jammed the bcomp line in, clattering the set in frustration.

Half the blasters, most of the splashers dipped. She got back audio and waist downs and rolled. "Whoooo turned my hot shots off? Who left the wallEMP off!" Micro drones winged around the room popping ad spray and sonics, a few were clamped on her with other past due notes. "Water ration overdue, water ration exceeded" circled her biomech cat ears. Swatted a two or three, fell on the wall switch to jam on the Flyswatter. DeeDee figured a couple hundred overall went pop, trailed smoke down. Ad dust everywhere from the spray. One was on her face?

"I'm not best pleased!" she said to no one, expressing her displeasure. Swept dust and drone crumbs with her feet to space clear in her studio apartment slash office slash workspace slash bedroom slash kitchen, and crashed on the deskchair, slapping dpatches along her limbs and a compstik into her faceboard. "No hotshot no swatter, noncon facejacked?" She untangled her hair from the ecb-plugs on her face tech and grabbed her digiplate because she was slumming it, pouted while the scrips and drips that got dug into her software and hardware ate the big edit to the sky.

While she was waiting around for the MAds and spamware scan [MAdaSS], she finally got to look over the C-Clamp chastity boot locked to her pelvic slot with optional NoPro (tm) insert for prostate denial. "What's this horseshit, who did I fuck last night?" DeeDee did not know what horses were, she imagined they were a kind of bird. Pinged out for her custom built EX neurosynth neovag and got fuckall, which pissed her because the whole point was fuck all.

One by one her debuggers chirped, hopped onto her palm, drawered em, and slapped her basic as fuck face of the day on. Blessed she was with pristine sight of the world, not a nagnote or payscram in sight, just vext message notes, siggies, and a small alarm bell. "Shit, better get to work!"

Shoved cargo shorts over her cock locked personal pleasure slot, work boots, tanktop ("Asparagus for President" it said, from the infamous three way sudden death vote-off of '76), and jammed her comxcon into a free arm port before she flipped the sign to open at her door. "Gosh that was close, any customers?" She looked, a khakicollar dude held up a laptop plaintive, "My browser won't-" DeeDee slammed the door, "No customers! Another perfect day, hang up." Vext notes blinked aside for serious business now. She threw her shorts off. "Time to get outta this contraptamajig."

One angle grinder, one band saw blow torch, three axes, twelve hammers, and eighteen screwdrivers later DeeDee fucked her way through one after the other, even tried to plink the code. All this pouding and plethora of penetrarive pelvic parts frustrated her to rolling her bedsheets into her crotch and grinding on the best metal chastity could buy. She drooled all over her aching synthezized nerve spots, "fuck me I can't even cum, what's wrong with the world these days?"

Vexts, vexts, she clicked the note up it said: ANSWER YOUR CALLS and >:( >:( >:( >:(

The incoming piddy was the UNKNOWN ID scrap, she dropped a spam cage on it and replied 8===D~~~ GFYS and binned it mid-[... is typing]

Fuck fuckity fuck work, DeeDee needed some downtown deep sea diving. She climbed out the window, being more reliable than stairs or elevator. Nothing worked in the damn building except gravity.

Short and sweet broke beat sidewalk street, she hit so many concrete cracks, DeeDee figured the local maternity wards had to be a massacre. A couple dozen micros blasted ad spray and sonics, she flipped a bug zapper and swept em. Ads were going old school, nanoswarms warred over wallspace in constant barage of microsensors, hurling rainbow swirls that paced over the odd window and traffic signal promising six months free tubespace per dayclix.

ANSWER YOUR CALLS RIGHT NOW 😡😡😡😡

"Oh fancy fucks spending on the megs per pixel now?" DeeDee spamcanned again (GFYS) and freeloaded on a driverless with a buncha other local goons. "Hey ratbot, you headin to the VFW too?"

"It's a coffee barrr, Draftie," he replied. DeeDee called him ratbot because he was a planned obsolescence warbot with artificial intelligence generated by a rat brain daisy chain, real preschooler level tech these days but cheap and easy at the time and twice as disposable as a human soldier. "And for the last time my name is Wendell. Wendell Crawford."

She still didn't know why he had a Boston accent, the whole city had been totalled in the second Great Mega Pileup Traffic Jam six years before the manufacturer date on his tread guards. He called her Draftie because her legal name was Draft Dodger due to a mistake in one of her prison ID cards. "C'mon, it's Morca's."

"Ignore her, babe," Bobby, ratbot's partner, tugged him a fraction of an inch away on the driverless rooftop. Legally speaking Bobby was Wendell's owner because the corporate manufacture-state that made him refused to recognize his personhood. Morca's owner, SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE, had been helping with their legal battle, but they hadn't made much progress. Total bullshit, DeeDee thought but last big corplex suit against SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE made em keep her in life support parts forever, cleared out all mines from international waters, and her entire species were considered a recognized nation encompassing all oceans on Earth. Did great things for the environment, terrible for the war business.

They hopped at the block, batted some more ad spray and DeeDee knocked some local splashers with the hotshot, enjoyed watching ratbot snap micros in half with his plastic fingers, inhuman accuracy, "Still got it babe," said Bobby, hugging his blocky arms.

They pushed through the big, rocketproofed front doors under a blinking neon "Morcha Latte" sign, inside was all plastic and vulcanized rubber with DV light and fake windows to make the warehouse sized bunker building feel cozy. SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE claimed it was stress tested up to three directs from sunburst corebuster and who was going to argue with a two storey cyborg?

The overheads churned out the latest scrape40, whatever they were listening to at the bottom of the ocean, today DeeDee thought it sounded like angry plinko machines fighting while she caught lyrics she understood in bits and pieces, "Strangle me, strangle all my life, drag us through the silt and kill in the light," or something like that. She was a regular at Morca's because she got SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE all her jailbroken subscription free parts - sourcing and scouring unclocked mods and squids was her gig anyway. She dumped her ass into a rickety old carbon fiber woven chair between the door and the juke wall. A bunch of hipsters had early adopted save to disc memory uploads but went with vinyl to capture the true soul, now they spent all day slotted into the giant juke machine with impulse fed nerve endings bathed in chemically sterilized vats of coffee.

DeeDee unzipped her shorts and capped the chastity blocker. ARE U SEEING THIS? vexted to Portland. They knew all the high mods, probably could crack her case, she thought, right before let's just say a jolt, a singing high note, transported her from crotch to sternum then dropped her cold. Half a sec from climax, she looked around the room her digiplate all 0_0 not finding a shred of note, til the second song struck her off her seat and got her writhing on the rubber. Customers at the other tables lifted cups and rekeyed their MAdaSSes to tune her out.

"Hot pants!" she yelled, "Liar pants, falsehoods and flame!" Real old gen VR heads turned in annoyance as she pirouetted through tables and rattled silverware clung to the espresso countertop. Her legs kicked about in frustration as she got edged up and dropped. "H-hey Velllma, mind if I borrow the steamer a hot sec?"

"Sure DeeDee, you know you only gotta ask hun. Want-want s-some sug- Sorry, still got that old tick." Velma was a self-operated point of sale holodrone who DeeDee had jacked, glassed, and juiced to someone more independent for handling orders at Morca's, and she'd done a recent SRS download to her visual interface.

"You're the best Vel." Few seconds later DeeDee steamed her crotch full blast trying to bust herself free or bust herself off.

ANSWER YOUR CALLS NOW OR YOU'LL NEVER CUM AGAIN, BITCH

She slipped off the espresso machine and answered from the floor with her feet still resting against the countertop. "Who are you, and what was the safe word? Last night's a blur."

"No safeword. We have your cunt. Meet at the bench, corner of Morgan Stanley Park Avenue and Kern Holding Street. Alone, one hour."

It was one thing to jailbreak, but DeeDee knew her limits and line trace was one so she snagged and bagged the pins and held a little inside sacrifice to Portland, the premier polymath polycule who surgically interconnected their brains inside a single body to share one another for life. One bit of Portland code gold and she'd be swimming in pussy. "You're on the floor, DeeDee," reminded Velma.

"This is my thinking space, hush up while I ponder the infinite." She could a couple a SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE's legs pacing, shaking the floor, could catch a word back in the beyond warehouse room where a couple cracked up Kilowais were chattering out notation and legal docstacks for Flathead Ford. The Kilowais, KBW trademarked AI, were way old corpsec, patented and trademarked download of a heavy hitter bandsaw from his day, couldn't be pirated off the base personality unless they morally agreed to void their warranty, lots in the circ. Ford was SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE's lawyer, fighting the landslide for ratbot on the orca's tab.

PORTLAND WILL SEE YOU NOW, DeeDee flixed over from the viz to the vurt. "Are you still thinking dear?" Velma asked, pointedly moving her legs to start espresso dripping, DeeDee assumed the obvious silently as penance. "How's it hanging y'all, got any hot new brains to hook into the juice party?" Loaded upside down in the polygon pleather chair, Portland ran clix and adspace in a tasteful wall scroll, kind of an art to the exploit, less brute force than DeeDee's prefs, the smooth outer chassis for Portland said "I'm punching out in a minute."

They were an individualized amalgamation of three physical brains psychosurgically visected into one another, enabled to a custom body and lifetime committed to singulamory. "I'm cock locked out, Port, listen," DeeDee shoved two fingers to her mouth and slathered her togue along them for a sensiosync to the cursed crotch clamp. Portland's digits ghosted through the stats, pulled em and vexted. "What's the damage, how much and how soon?"

"Custom work, charming darling." Portland leaned their trilateral symmetric body back, waved away the middle and spread up DeeDee's alt, nerves and all. "Fused the long way up your spinal cord. Biolocked, meat stuff. Not our forte, darling, and you couldn't afford it if it was." Portland sighed, overcome with vaporous boredom. "Even if we knew the lockout, custom viropicks run more than your last ten years income, pussycat."

"Fuck my life, stay outta my taxes, gimme something at least." DeeDee yanked her slobbered fingers out.

"It's good work, better than you're ever worth, and I'd know - I sourced half your body."

"One third but whatever."

"The good news is, you'll probably not get spinal meningitis from the lockout, just don't leave it too long." DeeDee punched out and heaved a floor heavy sigh. "Guess I really better go make that meet, or I could desperately call everyone I know and owe." After desperately calling everyone she knew, DeeDee said, >:( to the ceiling, "I guess I'm going to the meet with these mysterious pussy theives. I spent good money on that cunt too!"

"How's that search going," Velma stood between DeeDee's legs and frothed artificially thickened protein strings for someone's café au lait.

"Velma... Velma, have I been karmically centered would you say? Have the scales of justice been tipped cruelly against me, the most innocent of girls? Would you walk on me for twenty bucks?"

So Velma kicked off her shoes but not even getting used as a doormat got her off the edge, then SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE looked through her office door.

"Velma, put your shoes on, DeeDee leave your shirt off and pay Velma another twenty." The average AlTrek 4X Infrantry Multiplier AC was rusting out in uninhabitable desert to the beat of radioactive decay, major outliers were in use for specialized valet parking and the life support framework for SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE, approximately 1/3 of an orca left over from an underwater mine in a corpwar trading route blow up.

No one argues with two tons of whale who already won a fight with the government and the major corptrade conglomerate general council strapped inside another 12 odd tons of mechanized power, DeeDee tucked her shirt behind her head and hoped someone around here appreciated her tits. >:0 "These are pristine, you jackoffs, classic CW models, OEM to spec!" She shoved them in the direction of the tables, no one looked.

"Dee." Flathead beckoned, DeeDee called to the beck and slashed backwards on a metal chair. "You're keyed up to vandal, girl. Listen, need a filter swap for my client. Upgrade the whole box if you can scratch it up, figure me?"

"Square it with me, Ford, my tits still hot?" (*´_`) She leaned way in, specced the side-eye from SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE through the tanktint windows, right figure whales are mammals too.

Flathead's oily eyes under that heavybrowed custom lawframe job in his skull slid along DeeDee, back to her digital pleading @_@ and shrugged. "You know I don't do organic."

"Fuck! I'm-" She pulled her shirt down. "I'm late, I'll hustle up a nextgen, usual rate."

"Sure sure. Clean it, client says this one makes everything taste like hot dogs."

"How's she know what a hot dog tastes like even where'd she get..." DeeDee vocalled on the downlow out the side office door, left ratbot and Bobby hankin paperwork in whatever new angle Ford was playing at. Color searing eyes blasted the world round her with sound again. Splasher and flasher swarmed the Mocra doors hungrily.

DeeDee swiped onto a delivery drone blowing down the sidewalk, vanished in a cloud of disintegrating adspray and splasher dust. Clix and spinners streaked her A/V edge while she fingerbanged the tamperfree(tm) deep into the loving waiting GPS and flushed it. Kern Holding halved the ad sprays, stuck her on a halfsec blind wait to cycle over the MAdaSS.

Didn't look half priced up over the viz, real park space and algea tanks, plastic green, trueviz rooftop boards and splashers all reigned in. Not many places scratched up enough to pay for gray but Kern and Morgan Stanely did. "Fuck where's this guy." Hustle and crowd pressed close round the bench powerbricks, all these droners worked virtual right on the walkway.

Coats slid up too personal in a curl, this guy has legs on legs and teeth like insect legs, curling open near DeeDee's whimsical cat-ear mods. "Let's private" it skittered those fine metal teeth to her mask glass, and made her go all >.<; with each word. "Whatever." She wrapped digits round multisegment hands and clasped private-public lines, perfect prophylactic for keeping conversing on the hush-hush without a fatal social disease.

"Why the cold brush, kittykat, doncha trust much," it thrummed in silk smooth inside sounds around the wire.

"Don't test my taps, snatcherino," she dropped an icicle hiss down the line. Hand in hand and out for a stroll through the walking workdead and high class bluemaroon adspray of the other side.

"Fair enough kitty, coulda had more playtime." It was wrapped up head to toe other than the segments in her hand and legs slipped in between bandages on its head. "Giving you a hot tip, fresh filter refurb, ex-corp sub and modded for ox, great deal for you. Free and install formatted."

"Real bargain bin I spec."

"No clones, no rebadge. I'll drop the pickup, all you do is courier like a good girl. No messing, no poking the drivers and wares, from your hands to the orca, and forget we talked. That's all." A ripple of excitement went through the walking workdead, furiously chattering through corp trades.

"Figure that filter's plenty safe. Figure that's why all the cloak n bullshit pussy snatching. Pure charity, no?"

"Trust, nothing's on your hands after this and you go back to nightly custom fingerbangs." Twenty insect legs curled around the cuff of its coat and withdrew.

"Might run this up a few contacts first."

"Might drop your filthy cunt in sulfuric acid if you do, clear enough."

"Distilled, fine, hit me with the deets."

Deet dusted, connect busted, DeeDee blew bowed kisses with fuck off finger flourishes while she walk backwards up an exec driverless, scuffing up the ten cent gloss on a two cent primer dip. Rolled with the high rollers through the Red Riser strip. She cut through the Whipping Whirlpool, high stakes operator she cut some autonomics for - head/body gamblers all got off on taking a chance on having their bodies wired in to fuck off enough debt to reattach their heads, double or nothing down to win a brand new model. Not a sale or soul DeeDee made, her personal opinion but no judgment. Slipped out the back door after a little slap and tickle pass through.

The back alley cut between WW and topline exec condoslugs, custom body stim tubes for a full home holistic virtual life, and the whole alley was packed with nimbyronment sentiels. Rained here so no one else got wet, wastecycle rats and sewer filters crowded up and down the black wet brick. DeeDee stepped live around the hyperaggro antipestation roachhives then out to the big blaze - adcolor burst wide round her as she hit the main road looking for drones and anthills.

No broker worth a salt shake missed out on bread crumbs and sugar crystals, and DeeDee doled em from her cargo pants pocket. Can't do acquisitions and void warranties without a big juiced net, a dropin with Guts was neg, hadda go pre-analog here full on prehistoric. Dime blaster swarmed each scrap, cheap motion sensitive, to small for spray. Rats bright and ready for fission snagged, but the bait made do and the march of Colony made its unerring path a bead of tiny black dots to DeeDee.

"Sweet sWeet sweEt bread Gluten carbo yeaSt verY Good sweet swEet yes." Couple hundred ants jeweled DeeDee's ears pretty as you please and twice as small. Colony sees all, knows all, lives everywhere, that singularly focused consciousness inside immeasurable ants. It all farmed belowground, and DeeDee got in the know when her mini-fridge busted.

No dropin, no line out, no unlink or download - just neko a horminga and her lips to Colony's ears.

[animeniko]

ah yes. nopro. my favorite action cam brand

[lionews]

"A stat monster shouldn't be punished and added to the dirty list purely because they're popular." That's precisely why I decided on the original 4 stat monsters. Personally, I'm considering YorHA, Morketida, and the others one Prolifics / NoPros and avoiding them.

lol you jax have twice as many cubs as yorha on average. hope you'll include yourself in the list! ✌️

.

[insomnyahhh]

my hero academia but all of them trapped in an island and there’s a secret camera crew, recording this reality tv show . there’s drama, fights and romance. its just insanely messy

[simplylib]

In just a few weeks, effective February 20th, the Los Santos Government is enforcing the NoPro act - banning us from doing any type of promotional shoot in our country. We are fighting the best we can to have this overturned, but my fear is that us creators will have to leave the country by the 20th. But there are still so many Liberty stories to tell - and she specifically instructed me to create some Lib stories of my own.

So today, I am taking over Liberty’s blog and updating everything - including writing posts to honor both our stories as the Los Santos era comes to a close. We hope you’ll have fun reading what we were up to. It was, after all, a truly American story.

[writing-protocol]

Sappy Horror Night

Shiro doesn't remember how the rest of the paladins talked him into this, but here he is, a thirty-year-old man on a couch, watching Alien for the first time.

This is not a movie for the faint of heart, he decides when yet another bystander dies to the jaws of a creature that would probably send even the Lions scampering. This might be worse than the psychological torture he endured.

He glances over at Keith, seated next to him on an oversized couch, clearly having a good time, and shivers. How is everyone else so calm and collected about this? How are they not freaking out whenever the music subtly changes and the lights flicker?

"You all right?" his husband murmurs, leaning in close.

"Fine," Shiro practically squeaks.

"He's not fine," Pidge adds sagely from where they're perched on a cushion on the floor, bowl of popcorn in hand.

Keith reaches over and puts an arm around his husband's shoulders and nuzzles his flesh-and-blood arm reassuringly. "You gonna make it, big guy?"

Shiro swallows and holds back a whimper, just barely. "Definitely."

"Liar," Keith whispers into his ear. "Come on, let's go do something else."

"Nope, I'm fine."

Keith rolls his eyes. "We've been married long enough that I know better."

"Shhh!" Lance mutters. "We're just getting to the good part."

"Shut up, lover boy. One more word—"

Allura snickers and wraps her fiancé in her embrace. Keith is thankful she knows what to do with Lance because he certainly doesn't. Distance hasn't made his heart grow any fonder, at least not about this.

"We can turn the lights on," he offers.

"It's almost over anyway," Shiro protests, endeared at Keith's single-minded protection. "Plus, you like it."

"It's a guy in a suit. You can tell!" Keith protests.

"Well, don't tell us that," Pidge grumbles. "Next time, I'm not inviting either of you to horror movie night. Just kiss him and get it over with!"

"What?" Keith sputters, and even poor Hunk can't help chuckling.

He glares at the back of Pidge's head before turning and doing exactly that. He reaches up to hold Shiro's overheated face and presses their lips together in a gesture that's both familiar and so, so precious.

That they get to spend this life together still feels like a revelation.

Shiro returns the kiss, leans into it, and sighs.

"They're doing it again," Lance mutters quietly.

Allura takes the opportunity to do the same to shut him up.

Someone screams in the background. Hunk makes more popcorn.

It's… pretty much like every other movie night the paladins have ever done. Perfect in all the ways that matter.

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

Another attempt at Keith as a SecUnit. At this point, other than looks, this is basically a totally different character, but whatever. It's a picture -- I am not attaching any deeper meaning to it.

This SecUnit has seen some shit.

IMG ID: a gray-white-and-black drawing of a person with shoulder-length hair who is dressed in a t-shirt and pants. Various augments are visible, and some of them are glowing red. Its eyes are also red. On its t-shirt, there are two words, "caution" in red and "SecUnit" in black underneath that.

[whump-protocol]

The Thing

SecUnit is in my medical bay.

So is SecUnit’s right arm, although it’s not currently attached to SecUnit. For all intents and purposes, it is sufficiently complex to a.) watch media with SecUnit in the feed and b.) have opinions about said media. 

It’s tapping out those opinions on a modified display surface. 

Iris is lying inside MedSystem with minor bruising and a gash in her shoulder. The disembodied arm is the reason she is alive at all, so I am being very lenient with its continued existence.

SecUnit pings me on a private channel. Explain it to me again. It’s alive?

I focus on the question because accuracy is essential. It appears to be. The facts of the situation cannot be expressed accurately in words. To the best of my understanding, 2.0 fused with the alien remnant and, in colloquial terms, hitched a ride in the neural tissues and limited processors associated with your shoulder-arm-hand assembly. It lay dormant until some undefined point where it detached from you and rescued Iris.

I know that part. I was there.

Your arm has been malfunctioning for months. 2.0 is likely the reason.

SectUnit starts another episode of Sanctuary Moon since 2.0 would like to rewatch the entire series. And now what?

I am constructing you a new arm as we speak.

I mean, what happens to 2.0?

I know you did, and I am unsure of the answer, either. I cannot predict whether I can transfer 2.0 in its current state into a more-appropriate system. 

It’s stuck like this? Does it know?

It does, I acknowledge. There’s nothing you or I can do right now to resolve this situation. Its continued existence is an adverse effect of the alien remnant. Now that it is here, we’ll do what we can, but we know very little about alien remnants, much less how they interface with construct code. You might not believe this, but I doubt this has ever happened before.

No shit, ART.

2.0 taps something on the display tablet. GOOD PART.

We’re coming, I tell it indulgently and focus on the serial in the feed, careful not to jar either SecUnit or 2.0. This is not what I expected; I note as much in my logs.

[topmiata]

🖤 #nopro @motsu.motsu.ojisan #TopMiata #JDM #Mazda #Miata #MX5 https://www.instagram.com/p/CWWvRqwIwfq/?utm_medium=tumblr

[cipheramnesia]

sneak peek:

First thing DeeDee noticed, her usual morning orgasm, or "morgasm," hadn't gone off. She was late, and splashers crowded her A/V specs, screaming flashing neon yellow red blue promises, 10 water rat guaranteed each spin, stop here twenty percent off premium-vu, act now to get free oxy-sub, plus about fifteen past due blasters for her leg mods, dayclix, manudex upgrade, face plate, other parts. She could see a narrow sliver of her room through the MAds, and she had a scrips balance lockout from the cockout. Groaning with irritation, clawed her way off the cot to the 12-key hardline, unfolded her tongue socket and jammed the bcomp line in, clattering the set in frustration.

Half the blasters, most of the splashers dipped. She got back audio and waist downs and rolled. "Whoooo turned my hot shots off? Who left the wallEMP off!" Micro drones winged around the room popping ad spray and sonics, a few were clamped on her with other past due notes. "Water ration overdue, water ration exceeded" circled her biomech cat ears. Swatted a two or three, fell on the wall switch to jam on the Flyswatter. DeeDee figured a couple hundred overall went pop, trailed smoke down. Ad dust everywhere from the spray. One was on her face?

"I'm not best pleased!" she said to no one, expressing her displeasure. Swept dust and drone crumbs with her feet to space clear in her studio apartment slash office slash workspace slash bedroom slash kitchen, and crashed on the deskchair, slapping dpatches along her limbs and a compstik into her faceboard. "No hotshot no swatter, noncon facejacked?" She untangled her hair from the ecb-plugs on her face tech and grabbed her digiplate because she was slumming it, pouted while the scrips and drips that got dug into her software and hardware ate the big edit to the sky.

While she was waiting around for the MAds and spamware scan [MAdaSS], she finally got to look over the C-Clamp chastity boot locked to her pelvic slot with optional NoPro (tm) insert for prostate denial. "What's this horseshit, who did I fuck last night?" DeeDee did not know what horses were, she imagined they were a kind of bird. Pinged out for her custom built EX neurosynth neovag and got fuckall, which pissed her because the whole point was fuck all.

Cyberpunk heist movie where a trans woman's favorite hot swap genitals are stolen and being held hostage, so she has to get together a crew of trans human misfits to recover them. Meanwhile the thieves have locked out her pubic region with a hack through the genitals' wireless ability and are spending the whole time edging her to fuck with her ability to concentrate on retaliation.

[lionews]

""A stat monster shouldn't be punished and added to the dirty list purely because they're popular." That's precisely why I decided on the original 4 stat monsters. Personally, I'm considering YorHA, Morketida, and the others one Prolifics / NoPros and avoiding them."

As a several year player, I didn't know that you of all people decided on the original 4. It seems like you're not very well liked man, based on what's been said that I've seen both on site and on this blog. This is coming from a very infrequent poster.

OP has a point. What's the use of adding every new stat monster or popular G1 to the dirty list? Even if it is, as you said, a "Prolifics" section? It can be a challenge for clean breeding, sure. But it seems a bit pointed to add every single popular G1 or stat monster, no? And when does the bar become the bar? 400 cubs? 500 cubs?

.

[pieratebay]

Nogami Project NC1 GT-S kit

[writing-protocol]

Impossible Task

Shiro’s target is sitting on the roof of his own house, face turned upward to take in the sparkling night sky. This far from the nearest town’s light pollution, the stars shine bright against the backdrop of the Milky Way. Somewhere in the distance, critters scurry in the desert and a cool breeze rushes across the hardscrabble rock of the nearby flatland. A single, lone cactus sits idly near the porch; it’s probably been here longer than the single-story shack Red call home.

“Might as well come up,” calls a low, raspy voice. “Ladder’s on this side.”

The hunter walks around the side of the house, past a row of hardy flowers in planters, down a narrow, well-trodden path that circles around the small building. He gets a glimpse of the well-maintained external siding decorated with rows of grey-and-black sigils.

Far beyond standard protection wards, these symbols flow and writhe as Shiro passes, as if tracking his progress. On the back side, the shack has a small back door with a couple of steps leading down toward a secondary path, and there’s a ladder propped up against the bottom of the roof.

The older man takes a moment to gather himself before clambering up to join his query. He’d known from the beginning that he couldn’t possibly sneak up on the witch — Red is the most powerful spell caster of his generation, and this is his domain.

“Didn’t think you’d come so soon,” says the dark-haired young man once Shiro is safely standing on the roof. “Huh.”

By the meager light of the night sky, Shiro can make out few details. Red is skinny and tan, his black hair messy as it curls behind his ears. He’s dressed in loose pants and a thick sweater with sleeves long enough to cover his hands. The witch has legs for days and bright, piercing eyes that watch the hunter with suspicious calm.

“Huh?” Shiro asks.

“You’re not at all what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

Red shrugs and pats the blanket he’s sitting on. “One of the exorcists, maybe? Last time, the Garrison sent three at once.”

“I’m not with the Garrison.”

“Oh, really?”

Shiro shrugs and takes the offered seat. “They put out a bounty. Nearly a hundred thousand credits. I took the job.”

“And drove straight here?” the younger man asks with a note of surprise.

“Not exactly. I did my homework first.”

Red chuckles and sips from his thermos, gaze returning to the glimmering sky above. This close, Shiro can see a recently healed scar on the man’s face and the way his hands wrap around the thermos.

“When’d you know I was here?”

“When you crossed the boundary back at the crossroads.” The witch shrugs his narrow shoulders and closes his eyes. “I can feel it when people enter my domain.”

“That’s gotta be a useful skill.”

“It comes in handy when dealing with unwanted visitors. I’m surprised you came here at all. Most people wouldn’t think of challenging a witch on their land.”

Shiro knows he’s taking a risk by coming here, but he has a few tricks up his sleeve. “I guess I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about. The Garrison insisted I was dealing with a powerful and deranged madman hellbent on taking over the world.”

That gets a full-throated laugh out of Red. The man snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “Is that what they think?”

“Are they wrong?”

“How much do you know about spell casting?”

“Enough,” Shiro answers quickly.

“It requires willpower and raw natural energy from the earth, a.k.a. magic. I have a lot of both, so yeah, I’m powerful. Deranged, though? And definitely, not hell-bent on anything.”

“I thought it was common knowledge that each witch has an agenda.”

“It’s called an impossible task. Every witch is born with one, something they must accomplish before they die or suffer the consequences. And yes, I have one of those.”

Shiro spent weeks scouring the old libraries and digging through newspaper clippings to better understand his target. The world knows Red’s pseudonym because he saved thousands of people once. From atop a mountain, he calmed the wrath of a volcano that had threatened the West Coast.

Then, he disappeared, and the Garrison took it upon themselves to capture the rogue witch. Magic might be legal, but the government loathes anything and anyone it can’t control.

“They say yours is to burn down the world.”

The quiet man behind him hums softly in answer. “Something like that.”

“They’ll never stop chasing you,” Shiro tells the witch, hands in his pockets. “If not me, then the next hunter. You can’t hide forever.”

“I know.” Red stands up and downs the rest of his drink. “I know they’ll stick me in the deepest hole they can dig and throw away the key. I’ve known my future for a long time now.”

“And yet here you sit.”

“The alternative was to live in fear, looking over my shoulder until the very end.” The man turns toward Shiro and there’s a wan half-smile on his lips. “At least this way I get to meet a handsome man.”

The hunter recoils as his cheeks grow warm. “Flattery won’t postpone the inevitable.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” The witch shrugs and kneels in front of Shiro. “My real name’s Keith. I thought you should know.”

Shiro’s heart is thumping hard in his chest. In his pocket is a sedative, a heavy dose of something that can fell a witch, and all he has to do is touch the beautiful, ethereal young man before him to activate the drug.

Keith watches him with eyes that glimmer in the dark. “It’ll be all right, you know. You can stay here afterward. I know you don’t call anywhere else home, so I tried my best to make this shack livable. The pantry’s stocked, and I’ve got year-round vegetables growing in the greenhouse. You can see for miles. No one will be able to sneak up on you here.”

“Why’re you doing this?” Shiro asks as his hands find Keith’s face and cup it, callused fingers pressing against the angles of the witch’s cheeks. “You could’ve fought back, surely.”

“Maybe. I might’ve even won. But time is like a river, and some events in it are immovable rocks. I tried to budge one, and it cost me dearly. I’ll be picking up those pieces for the rest of my life.” Keith’s eyes flutter shut. “Take care, Shiro.”

---

Shiro gingerly descends from the roof with his precious cargo pressed close to his pounding chest.

He walks into the house, Keith held in his arms like a sleeping bride, and places him with unparalleled care on the couch in the living room.

In the dim light of a corner lamp, the shorter man looks almost peaceful. His short hair spills around his head like a halo, and his dark clothes show off a gorgeous physique. Shiro slips a pillow under Keith’s head and covers him with a woven blanket.

Then he looks around the cozy home and can’t help feeling impressed. Here’s a home whose occupant cared deeply. It’s visible in every nook and cranny, from the way plants dot the windowsills to Keith’s favorite mug placed next to a coffee maker.

Shiro’s smile fades as he glances at his phone.

He has a choice to make.

Dial the number provided by the Garrison and wait for a retrieval crew to arrive, or run with his sleeping friend. Keith will awaken eventually, and they’ll need to cross state lines before dawn to stand a chance of escaping the Garrison.

Asleep, the witch looks so vulnerable and young, the sight breaks Shiro’s already fractured heart.

“Yeah, all right, all right,” he tells his conscience. “Shut it."

“Rest easy,” he whispers to the sleeper and then goes outside to prepare his truck.

It feels like shedding a lifetime of weight off his shoulders, this single moment. One moment, he’s someone’s hound, and the next, his own master. He chooses to escape, to save the raven-haired man from the horrors the Garrison has planned. The choice leaves him breathless and light.

He has a plan by the time he straps the sleeping man into the truck’s passenger seat. Or at least the beginning of one. Outrunning an organization whose tendrils touch nearly every aspect of society will be no easy task, but it’s a challenge Shiro is willing to face. He won't let Red - no, Keith - struggle to survive alone.

Keith doesn’t stir as they drive away from his home, and Shiro is glad he doesn’t have to explain himself. He will figure this out in time. For now, he’s just a lone hunter helping a person who might one day call him a friend.

Today, that will have to be enough.