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togglesbloggle · 8 months

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Voltaire's Prayer

“I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: Oh Lord, make my enemies ridiculous. And God granted it." -Volaire’s letter to Étienne Noël Damilaville, 16 May 1767

I’m inordinately fond of sex, in the political sense. It’s saved us so often from the worst parts of ourselves.

As far as anti-authoritarian elements of the human experience go, sex is right up there with curiosity and the search for truth- maybe even more so. When a new tyrant comes to town, shutting down the universities and the libraries is only the second thing they try. The first thing is to regulate human sexuality to within an inch of its life. Rules for marriage, rules for courtship, rules for which genitals may touch and where they may touch and when they may touch. Rules for who and rules for whom. Rules for which kinds of sex must doom characters in literature, rules for which things may be described as sexy, rules for which things may be described in a sexy way.

Of course they do! If you’re trying to bind a large polity together under a common ideological narrative, to render people predictable enough to quash dissent and legible enough to exert power through them, the last thing you need is a bunch of folks running around being horny about stuff without permission. Nature gifted us with a great capacity for reason and community; we have the innate opportunity to learn about ourselves and our neighbors, and to form complex societies based on that understanding. It was Aristotle who first called us the political animal, and the fruits of that extraordinary capacity will always be within our reach, if only we can come together within a shared understanding. The invention of the city is the great triumph of our species, and with it we conquer the universe.

But also this extraordinary, reasoning mind has been sculpted from the raw clay of a biology that’s anchored in sexual reproduction, and this ends up being very, very funny.

The problem isn’t so much that the sex instinct exists, per se. It’s how it’s implemented. Like most biological forms, the full complement of 86 billion(!) neurons in your brain aren’t encoded in a particular configuration; the brain is much too complex to be described so precisely in the only ~725 megabytes or so of human DNA. The particular shape of your brain is in there somewhere- the lobes and subregions responsible for vision, memory, cognition, all that- but only up to a point. The genius and fundamental limitation of genetics is that, below a certain level, the genes instead describe a process for the production and reproduction of specialized cells, and simply constructs them in such a way that they can be relied upon to order themselves as they go.

This is all well and good when we’re talking about kidneys and livers, but the fact that you can encode any kind of specific behavioral instinct in a brain this way is nothing short of a minor miracle. Think about it! Spiders don’t have a ‘spider web’ gene, the gene is for ‘proteins that come together in self-assembling electrochemically sensitive gelatin tissue which, when complete, encodes patterns that operate organ systems such as legs and spinnerets in such a way as to reliably create silk webs.’ This is absurdly impressive, and also completely insane.

What I’m getting at is, powerful behavioral instincts in a complex animal aren’t precise instruction manuals by which we pursue evolutionarily advantageous behaviors. Sex and eros are prior to logic or language, let alone strategy. Sex is a double-thick electrical wire discharging lightning bolts right through the middle of our cognitive centers, installed in the brain by a surgeon wearing mittens. It’s an untethered firehose whipping chaotically through the cathedral, unpredictably spraying golden reliquaries with substances unmentionable. It’s the first and greatest anarchist.

I really can’t overstate my gratitude for this.

Obviously this results in any number of deeply goofy outcomes by way of kinks and odd sexual practices- it gets tangled with pain centers, with random bits of anatomy and proprioception, with our taboos and aversions, with our greatest terrors or our greatest yearnings or just arbitrary stimuli from adolescence, and of course it gets enmeshed so often with our notions of power and submission. It imbues these things with a fascination and potency out of all proportion with their mundane meanings. And ultimately, you end up with human pleasures and human values that diverge so far from banal evolutionary imperatives as to be all but unrecognizable.

Even when this process somehow manages to propagate through the brain in such a way as to drive behaviors that are legibly aligned towards some adaptive constraint- e.g. heterosexual mating practices resulting in biological reproduction and careful childrearing- it’s still madness. Love and sex penetrate deeply across tribal and national and racial boundaries, across economic interests, across battle-lines and enmities. We become traitors, apostates, emigrants, and artists. Declare a law, and in short order some hot-headed young people come along to break it in the name of sexual passions you could not possibly have seen coming. Divide your neighborhood into us and them, and by the time the ink is dry on your proclamation there will be a forbidden relationship across the fence. There is no social order, no ethical system, no theory of human nature that can entirely withstand contact with the full spectrum of human sexuality, because sex and eros are always going to be exactly as bonkers as the complexity of the human mind and culture will allow, plus a little extra just to be sure.

This isn’t always a delight, of course. Many prohibitions exist for a very good reason, and the chaos of human sexuality makes no exemptions for true evil. Some of us end up really, truly victims of this process. But for all the dangers, the chaos at the root of all this isn’t oriented towards evil. Chaos just means chaos, essentially arbitrary and hence absurd in character.

And in the grand analysis, we are so lucky to have this thing moving through our communities, this ridiculous madness that guarantees that there will be cracks in every wall and slips exploding cigars in the pockets of the powerful few. Not in everybody as individuals, of course, and not everybody the same amount; asexuality is certainly one of the outcomes that all this mad gallivanting through our brains can produce. Sexuality would never be so predictable as to guarantee its own existence, after all. That’s part of what makes the joke so funny.

But all of us, regardless of sexuality, get to live in a world where the grand anarchy of sex is constantly driving home this lesson that no category is inviolate and no law is perfect. That we should not and cannot take ourselves too seriously, or forget that we’re animals. That we don’t exist only for the sake of others, or within their understanding. That cities are made of cooperation, grace, and forbearance- not conformity or mere compliance.

People sometimes worry about immortality. In the political sense, I mean. They worry about eternal dictatorships and unconquerable gerontocracies. This fear isn’t entirely unjustified; death has often played a role in progress and liberation. But as long as enough of us are still getting horny without permission, still falling in love in stupid ways, I think we’ll be okay. Romeo and Juliet don’t have to die at the end to make a difference in the world, as long as they’re brave enough to get weird with it.

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objectumnonsense · 11 months

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thinking this evening about robots (as usual of course) but specifically those robots who have no genitals, nor desire for them, nor really any way to experience pleasure in a "human" way. maybe they're work bots not made with sex in mind, or building-sized supercomputers with no sense of touch outside of user interface areas.

thinking about intimacy with a body (or bodies) that love in a slightly different language. metal hands holding warm flesh, digging in, with the power to tear away but the care and restraint not to. a comforting voice that surrounds and whispers sweet nothings while rooms of servers and screens hum and pulse with want want want.

will you pry away its chassis and adore its insides the same way it adores yours? tangle your fingers in its wires, pull them a little when you bring your hand away to caress its face? it's the trust it takes for it to let you in so close to its heart that makes you shiver. trace the grooves in its body, so precise and intentional in their placement; find the place where it falls apart and speed up the process.

listen to its voice glitch and skip while it tries to relay what you're doing to it. hear the mechanical keening when you reach its central processing arrays, every brush of your skin on its metal sending its thoughts into a hazy, static-filled loop of touch touch touch.

you're who gets to see it like this. who gets to make it fall apart. it's a thrill like nothing else.

#getting nervous to hornypost on my hornyposting blog on the hornyposting website like ok anxiety disorder can we Not #tho god itself would have to come down and smite me to stop me from being weird about computers #mentally ill robot boy getting pretentious on the beat #robophilia #wireplay #(a bit)

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defiblover27 · 4 months

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Curiosity

In the dimly lit room of the Intensive Care Unit (ICU), monitors beeped rhythmically, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Tubes and wires snaked around the bed, connecting the unconscious patient to various machines, a testament to the intricate dance of modern medicine. Amidst this symphony of medical intervention lay Sarah, a 28-year-old mother of one, her chest rising and falling with the aid of a mechanical ventilator.

Sarah's journey to this sterile environment had been nothing short of harrowing. It began like any other day, with the sun rising gently over the horizon, promising another day of routine and responsibilities. Little did she know that fate had other plans in store.

As Sarah went about her duties at work, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her, her vision blurring at the edges. Ignoring the warning signs, she soldiered on, determined to fulfill her obligations. But fate is relentless, and as Sarah reached for a file on her desk, her world went dark.

The next thing she knew, Sarah was surrounded by chaos. Voices clamored in the background, urgent and panicked, as hands worked feverishly to save her life. She felt disconnected, as if watching the scene unfold from a great distance.

Sarah had suffered a sudden cardiac arrest, her heart faltering in its rhythmic dance, sending her spiraling into the abyss of unconsciousness. But amidst the chaos, there were heroes. Co-workers sprang into action, initiating CPR with precision and urgency, their hands pounding rhythmically against her chest in a desperate bid to keep her alive.

Minutes stretched into eternity as the battle for Sarah's life waged on. The paramedics arrived, their arrival heralded by the wail of sirens piercing the air. With deft efficiency, they took over, administering life-saving interventions as they raced against time.

Sarah was whisked away in the belly of the ambulance, her body jostling with each turn of the road, a fragile vessel caught in the storm of uncertainty. Yet, through the haze of unconsciousness, there was a flicker of hope, a beacon guiding her through the darkness.

Arriving at the hospital, Sarah was met by a team of skilled medical professionals, their faces etched with determination as they fought to wrest her from the clutches of death. In the trauma room, amidst the flurry of activity, Sarah's heart faltered once more, her life hanging in the balance.

And now, as Sarah lay in the quiet stillness of the ICU, surrounded by the steady hum of machines, she began to stir. Consciousness seeped back into her, like tendrils of light piercing the darkness, illuminating the path to her awakening.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Confusion clouded her mind as fragments of memory pieced themselves together, forming a disjointed narrative of her ordeal. As Sarah gazed around the room, her eyes fell upon the figure of a nurse, her expression a mix of relief and concern.

As the nurse calls for the doctor, the atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, anticipation mingling with apprehension. Moments later, the door swings open, and in strides the doctor, his presence commanding respect and authority. With a gentle smile, he approaches Sarah's bedside, his eyes betraying the gravity of the situation yet brimming with reassurance.

"Good morning, Sarah," the doctor begins, his voice a soothing melody amidst the cacophony of medical equipment. "I'm Dr. Martinez, and I'll be overseeing your care today."

Sarah's gaze meets his, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension flickering in her eyes. She nods weakly, her throat dry and parched from the prolonged intubation.

"I'm going to remove the breathing tube now, Sarah," Dr. Martinez explains gently, his tone measured yet compassionate. "It may feel uncomfortable for a moment, but I'll be right here with you every step of the way."

With practiced hands, Dr. Martinez begins the delicate process of extubation, his movements fluid and precise. Sarah feels a fleeting sense of panic wash over her as the tube is slowly withdrawn from her throat, a sensation akin to being freed from a suffocating embrace.

As the last remnants of the tube are removed, Sarah takes a deep, shuddering breath, reveling in the newfound freedom to breathe on her own once more. Weakly, she raises a trembling hand to her throat, the absence of the tube a tangible reminder of the ordeal she has endured.

Turning her gaze to Dr. Martinez, Sarah's voice is barely above a whisper as she croaks out her question, "What... What happened?"

Dr. Martinez's expression softens, his eyes filled with compassion as he settles himself on the edge of her bed. With patience and empathy, he begins to recount the events that led Sarah to this moment – the sudden cardiac arrest at work, the heroic efforts of her co-workers and the paramedics, and the tireless work of the medical team to bring her back from the brink of death.

As he speaks, Sarah listens intently, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. She feels a surge of gratitude welling up within her, mingled with disbelief at the sheer magnitude of what she has endured.

"I'm... I'm alive," Sarah murmurs, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you... Thank you for saving me."

Dr. Martinez nods, his smile warm and genuine. "You're welcome, Sarah. We're just glad to have you back with us."

As Dr. Martinez finishes recounting the sequence of events leading to Sarah's resuscitation, he pauses, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. With a solemn nod, he continues, "There's something else you should know, Sarah. A camera crew had been in the trauma room from the moment you arrived until the moment you were wheeled out after being resuscitated. They captured everything on video."

Sarah's eyes widen in disbelief, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of Dr. Martinez's words. "A camera crew?" she repeats, her voice tinged with incredulity.

Dr. Martinez nods gravely, his expression mirroring Sarah's disbelief. "Yes, it's part of a documentary series on emergency medicine. They were granted permission to film in the trauma room, and your case was one of the ones they chose to document."

As the reality of the situation sinks in, Sarah feels a mix of emotions swirling within her – shock, confusion, and a touch of apprehension. The thought of her most vulnerable moments being captured on film for all to see fills her with a sense of unease.

"I... I don't know what to say," Sarah murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had no idea..."

Dr. Martinez offers her a reassuring smile, his eyes filled with understanding. "It's understandable, Sarah. This can be a lot to process, especially given everything you've been through. Just know that your privacy and dignity were maintained throughout the filming process, and any footage that is used will be handled with the utmost sensitivity."

Sarah nods slowly, a sense of resignation settling over her. Though the idea of her ordeal being broadcast for the world to see is unsettling, she takes comfort in knowing that her journey may serve to educate and inspire others.

"Thank you for letting me know, Dr. Martinez," Sarah says softly, her voice tinged with gratitude. "I suppose... I suppose it's just another part of my story now."

Dr. Martinez nods in agreement, his gaze steady and reassuring. "Indeed it is, Sarah. And it's a story of resilience, courage, and the incredible strength of the human spirit. You've been through a lot, but you've emerged stronger because of it."

"Sarah, we have the footage," Dr. Martinez replies, his voice gentle. "The hospital kept the undoctored footage, which spans a total of 35 minutes."

Sarah takes a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she processes the reality of what Dr. Martinez has just revealed. The idea of reliving her most vulnerable moments on screen is both terrifying and strangely compelling.

After a moment of internal struggle, Sarah meets Dr. Martinez's gaze, her eyes filled with determination. "May I... May I view the footage?" she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

Dr. Martinez's expression softens, his eyes reflecting empathy and understanding. "Of course, Sarah," he replies gently. "But I want to remind you that it may be difficult to watch. It's okay to feel overwhelmed or emotional. You don't have to do this if you're not ready."

Sarah nods, her resolve firm despite the uncertainty swirling within her. "I know," she murmurs. "But I need to see it. I need to understand what happened, and... and maybe it will help me make sense of it all."

With a reassuring smile, Dr. Martinez reaches for the remote control, activating the monitor mounted on the wall across from Sarah's bed. The screen flickers to life, bathing the room in a soft glow as the footage begins to play.

As the footage begins to roll, Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room, his steady narration guiding Sarah through the unfolding events. With a sense of trepidation, Sarah watches as the scene unfolds before her eyes.

"There you are, Sarah," Dr. Martinez's voice cuts through the silence, his tone calm yet informative. "You're on the gurney, and we've just applied oxygen to help support your breathing."

Sarah's breath catches in her throat as she sees herself lying on the stretcher, her chest rising and falling beneath the oxygen mask. The realization of her own vulnerability hits her like a tidal wave, and she clutches the edge of her blanket tightly, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

With each passing moment, Sarah feels a growing sense of admiration for the individuals on screen – the doctors, nurses, and paramedics who have dedicated their lives to the noble pursuit of saving others. Their faces blur together in a symphony of determination and compassion, their actions a testament to the unwavering commitment to their craft.

As the electrodes are applied to her chest, Sarah feels a surge of anxiety gripping her heart, her pulse quickening with each passing second. But as Dr. Martinez's reassuring voice fills the room, a sense of calm washes over her, and she finds solace in the knowledge that she is not alone in this battle.

As the footage progresses, Sarah watches with a mix of curiosity and discomfort as she sees herself laid bare on the hospital bed, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights that cast stark shadows across the room. Tubes and wires crisscross her body like a spider's web, their purpose and function a mystery to her.

Dr. Martinez's voice cuts through the silence, his tone gentle yet informative as he begins to explain the array of tubes and wires adorning Sarah's form.

"Here, you can see the various tubes and wires that are helping to support and monitor your condition, Sarah," Dr. Martinez narrates, his voice a soothing presence amidst the sterile environment of the hospital room. "Let me explain what each of them does."

As Sarah watches intently, Dr. Martinez gestures towards the different apparatus attached to her body, each one serving a vital role in her care.

"The tube you see here is an endotracheal tube," Dr. Martinez explains, his finger tracing its path from Sarah's mouth down into her throat. "It's connected to the ambu bag, which is helping to support your breathing by delivering oxygen-rich air directly into your lungs."

Sarah feels a surge of unease at the sight of the tube protruding from her mouth, a stark reminder of her dependence on the medical team keeping her alive. Yet, amidst the discomfort, there is a sense of gratitude for the gift of breath, a simple yet profound reminder of the fragility of life.

"And these wires here," Dr. Martinez continues, indicating the array of electrodes attached to Sarah's chest, "are monitoring your heart rhythm. They allow us to track any changes in your cardiac activity and intervene if necessary."

Sarah's gaze lingers on the electrodes, their presence a constant reminder of the battle raging within her own body. Yet, as Dr. Martinez speaks, she finds reassurance in the knowledge that she is being closely monitored, her heart guarded by the watchful eyes of the medical team.

As the footage unfolds, Dr. Martinez continues to explain the purpose of each tube and wire, his voice a steady guide through the labyrinth of medical technology. And though the sight of herself laid bare under the harsh lights is unsettling, Sarah finds solace in the knowledge that each apparatus serves a vital role in her journey towards recovery.

As the footage progresses, Sarah's heart rate monitor begins to emit a shrill alarm, its urgent tone slicing through the silence of the hospital room like a knife. Sarah's eyes widen in alarm as she watches herself on screen, her heart sinking as she realizes what is happening.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone urgent yet composed as he narrates the unfolding events. "Sarah, your heart has gone into ventricular fibrillation," he explains, his words tinged with urgency. "We need to act quickly to restore a normal rhythm."

Sarah's breath catches in her throat as she watches a nurse spring into action, her movements swift and decisive as she begins aggressive CPR. With each compression, Sarah sees her body jolt with the force of the nurse's hands, her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic dance of life and death.

As the nurse continues to administer CPR, Sarah feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, helplessness, and a profound sense of gratitude for the individuals fighting to save her life. She watches in awe as the medical team works tirelessly to bring her back from the brink of death, their hands moving with precision and purpose amidst the chaos of the emergency room.

And amidst the flurry of activity, Sarah's body reacts in ways she never thought possible – her chest bruising under the force of the compressions, her skin growing pale and clammy as oxygen struggles to reach her vital organs. Yet, amidst the pain and discomfort, there is a glimmer of hope – a beacon of light guiding her through the darkness towards the promise of a new day.

As the minutes tick by, Sarah feels a sense of desperation creeping in, her heart pounding in her chest as she watches the scene unfold before her eyes. As the nurse continues to administer CPR, her movements unyielding and relentless.

As the tense scene unfolds on screen, Sarah watches with bated breath as the nurse reaches for the defibrillator paddles, her movements swift and purposeful. The air crackles with anticipation as the paddles are charged and gelled, their metallic surfaces gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone grave yet authoritative as he explains the significance of the defibrillator paddles and the gel used to conduct electricity.

"Sarah, what you're seeing are the defibrillator paddles," Dr. Martinez begins, his voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. "They deliver a controlled electric shock to the heart in order to restore a normal rhythm."

Sarah's eyes widen in alarm as she watches the nurse place the paddles on her chest, their cold metal pressing against her skin like a reminder of her own mortality.

"And the gel that you see being applied to your chest is a conductive gel," Dr. Martinez continues, his words a steady reassurance amidst the chaos of the emergency room. "It helps to ensure a good connection between the paddles and your skin, allowing the electric shock to be delivered safely and effectively."

As Sarah watches herself being defibrillated multiple times, each shock sending her body jolting with the force of a thousand volts, she feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, pain.

With each shock, Sarah's body convulses with the force of the electricity coursing through her veins, her muscles tensing and releasing in a symphony of agony and relief.

As the cycle of CPR and defibrillation continues on screen, Sarah's heart clenches with each shock, her body convulsing in response to the jolts of electricity coursing through her veins. The room is filled with a sense of urgency, the air heavy with the weight of each passing second.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone grave yet determined as he narrates the unfolding events. "Sarah, they're nearing the 20-minute mark," he explains, his words a stark reminder of the critical nature of the situation. "They'll need to assess your pupils to determine your neurological status."

Sarah watches with bated breath as the charge nurse steps forward, her expression focused and intent as she carefully inspects Sarah's dilated pupils. The room falls silent as the nurse conducts her examination, her movements methodical and precise.

And then, the moment of truth arrives – the nurse's gaze meets Dr. Martinez's across the room, her expression a mix of relief and apprehension. With a nod, she confirms the results of her assessment, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.

"The pupils are reactive," the charge nurse announces, her words ringing out like a beacon of hope amidst the darkness of uncertainty.

As the tension in the room mounts and the critical twenty-minute mark approaches, Sarah watches with bated breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she braces for what comes next. The air is thick with anticipation, the weight of each passing second bearing down on her like a heavy burden.

And then, as if on cue, a nurse steps forward, her expression somber yet determined as she addresses the medical team gathered around Sarah's bedside.

"We're nearing the twenty-minute mark," the nurse announces, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "I recommend we consider stopping resuscitation efforts."

Sarah's heart skips a beat at the nurse's words, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of what she's just heard. "Stop?" she whispers, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper. "What do you mean?"

Dr. Martinez steps forward, his expression grave yet compassionate as he meets Sarah's gaze. "Sarah, I know this is difficult to hear, but after twenty minutes of continuous resuscitation efforts, the chances of a successful outcome diminish significantly," he explains gently. "We need to consider the possibility that further interventions may not be effective."

Sarah's breath catches in her throat, a wave of fear and disbelief crashing over her like a tidal wave. The thought of giving up, of admitting defeat in the face of insurmountable odds, is almost too much to bear.

"But... but I'm still here," Sarah protests, her voice tinged with desperation. "I'm still fighting. Please, don't give up on me."

Dr. Martinez's gaze softens, his eyes reflecting empathy and understanding. "We're not giving up on you, Sarah," he assures her, his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm of emotions swirling within her. "But we also have to consider what's best for you in this moment."

As the medical team discusses their options, Sarah's mind races with a million thoughts and questions. How did she end up here? Is this how it all ends?

As Sarah watches the final moments of the video unfold, a sense of dread washes over her as she sees herself once again succumbing to ventricular fibrillation. The tension in the room is palpable, the air thick with anticipation as Dr. Martinez prepares to deliver the decisive shock.

With each passing second, Sarah feels the weight of the moment bearing down on her like a heavy burden. The fear and uncertainty grip her heart, threatening to overwhelm her as she braces herself for what comes next.

And then, in a flash of blinding light, Dr. Martinez delivers the final shock, his movements swift and precise. Sarah's body convulses with the force of the electricity coursing through her veins, her muscles tensing and releasing in a symphony of agony and relief.

As the shock reverberates through her body, Sarah feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, pain, and a profound sense of gratitude for the individuals fighting to save her life. With each passing moment, she feels herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her grip on life slipping away with each heartbeat.

And then, in a moment that seems to stretch on for an eternity, a collective sigh of relief fills the room as the sound of a heartbeat echoes through the monitors. Sarah's eyes widen in disbelief as she realizes what she's just heard – the sweet, steady rhythm of life coursing through her veins once more.

Tears prickle at the corners of Sarah's eyes as she watches herself on screen, her heart overflowing with gratitude for the gift of another chance at life.

As Sarah watches herself being wheeled away to the ICU, a sense of apprehension settles over her like a heavy shroud. The journey ahead feels daunting, filled with uncertainty and the looming specter of what lies beyond.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone solemn yet determined as he is interviewed about Sarah's condition. "Sarah is far from out of the woods," he explains, his words echoing in the silence of the hospital room. "Her neurological assessments in the coming days will be crucial in determining her fate."

Sarah's heart sinks at Dr. Martinez's words, the gravity of her situation weighing heavily on her mind. The road to recovery seems long and arduous, fraught with obstacles and unknowns at every turn.

As she watches the interview unfold, Sarah finds herself clinging to the hope that she will emerge from this ordeal stronger than before. She knows that the days ahead will be filled with challenges, but she refuses to let fear and uncertainty dictate her fate.

Sarah, stunned by what she has just seen asks "Can you show me the one of those defibrillators like in the video?".

As Sarah's request catches Dr. Martinez by surprise, he pauses for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion. The notion of Sarah wanting to see the crash cart with the defibrillator paddles and gel seems unusual given the gravity of her recent experience. However, he quickly realizes the importance of providing her with the opportunity to gain a better understanding of the equipment involved in her resuscitation.

"Of course, Sarah," Dr. Martinez replies, his expression softening with understanding. "I'll bring the crash cart into the room so you can take a look."

Moments later, Dr. Martinez returns with the crash cart, wheeling it carefully into Sarah's ICU room. The gleaming silver paddles and tubes of conductive gel catch the light, casting an otherworldly glow in the sterile hospital environment.

Sarah's eyes widen with curiosity as she surveys the contents of the cart, her gaze lingering on the defibrillator paddles and gel that had caught her attention during the resuscitation. She reaches out tentatively, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of the paddles as she examines them with a mixture of fascination and trepidation.

"These are the defibrillator paddles," Dr. Martinez explains, his voice gentle as he gestures towards the equipment before them. "And this gel here is the conductive gel we use to ensure a good connection between the paddles and the patient's skin during defibrillation."

Sarah nods, her mind swirling with questions and emotions as she absorbs the significance of the equipment before her. "Can you demonstrate on me?".

As Sarah makes her request, Dr. Martinez pauses, considering her words carefully. It's an unusual request, but he understands Sarah's need for understanding and control in this moment of uncertainty. With a nod, he agrees to her request, his expression one of empathy and support.

"Of course, Sarah," Dr. Martinez responds gently, his tone reassuring. "I'll show you how the defibrillator works and position the paddles as they were in the video. Just let me know if you're comfortable proceeding."

Sarah takes a deep breath, her resolve firm as she nods in affirmation. "Yes, please," she says softly, her voice steady despite the lingering sense of trepidation. "I want to understand."

With careful precision, Dr. Martinez begins to demonstrate the operation of the defibrillator, explaining each step in detail as he guides Sarah through the process. He shows her how to charge the paddles, how to apply the conductive gel, and how to position the paddles on the chest in the correct placement.

As Sarah watches intently, her eyes focused on the equipment before her, she feels a sense of empowerment wash over her. Though the sight of the defibrillator paddles is unsettling, there is also a strange sense of comfort in knowing that she has the knowledge and skills to potentially save a life in the future.

And as Dr. Martinez positions the paddles on her chest, mirroring the placement from the video, Sarah feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, uncertainty, and a profound sense of gratitude for the opportunity to learn and grow from her experience.

"Thank you, Dr. Martinez," Sarah says softly, her voice tinged with emotion. "Thank you for helping me understand."

Dr. Martinez offers her a reassuring smile, his eyes reflecting pride and admiration for Sarah's resilience. "You're welcome, Sarah," he replies gently. "Remember, knowledge is power. And with the knowledge you've gained today, you have the power to face whatever challenges lie ahead."

And as Sarah pulls her hospital gown back up, she feels a newfound sense of confidence coursing through her veins.

As Dr. Martinez leaves the room, the crash cart remains behind, its contents gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the ICU. Sarah's gaze lingers on the equipment before her, her mind swirling with thoughts and emotions as she reflects on the video she had just watched.

The images of her own resuscitation replay in her mind like a haunting melody, each moment etched into her memory with vivid clarity. The sight of the defibrillator paddles, the sound of the alarms, the feeling of her own body convulsing with each shock.

As Sarah's hand reaches out towards the crash cart, a sense of determination courses through her veins, her heart pounding with a fierce resolve. With steady hands, she grasps the defibrillator paddles, feeling the cool metal against her skin as she pulls her hospital gown down, exposing her chest.

With practiced precision, Sarah applies the conductive gel to the paddles, spreading it evenly across their surface. The familiar sensation of the gel against her skin sends a shiver down her spine, a stark reminder of the events that had unfolded just hours before.

As she positions the paddles on her chest, Sarah feels a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The weight of the moment hangs heavy in the air, the silence of the room broken only by the steady hum of medical machinery.

With a deep breath, Sarah charges the paddles to 100 joules, her fingers trembling slightly as she prepares to deliver the shock. Her heart races in her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears as she braces herself for the impact.

And then, in a flash of blinding light, Sarah presses the paddles against her chest, feeling the electric current surge through her body with a jolt of intensity. The sensation is overwhelming, sending her muscles into a frenzy of convulsions as her body responds to the shock.

As Sarah takes her self-administered defibrillation to the next level she charges the paddles to 200 joules, a sense of determination fuels her actions, her heart pounding with adrenaline as she prepares for what lies ahead. With resolute hands, she adds more conductive gel to the paddles, ensuring an optimal connection for the shock she is about to deliver.

With meticulous care, Sarah spreads the gel across the surface of the paddles, her movements deliberate and focused. She knows the risks involved in what she is about to do, but she feels herself becoming aroused by the power she holds in her hands.

As she positions the paddles on her chest, Sarah's breath catches in her throat, her pulse quickening with anticipation. With a steady hand, she charges the paddles to 200 joules, her fingers trembling slightly as she prepares for the impact. As Sarah's body succumbs to the intense shock she administered to herself, a wave of dizziness washes over her, her vision blurring and her breath growing shallow. With a sense of impending doom, she feels her heart falter, its rhythm becoming erratic and irregular.

As Dr. Martinez enters Sarah's room with a sense of concern weighing heavily on his mind, he is met with a sight that sends a shiver down his spine. Sarah lies sprawled on the bed, her hospital gown down around her waist, and the defibrillator paddles scattered on the floor beside her.

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Dr. Martinez rushes to Sarah's side, his heart pounding with urgency as he assesses her condition. The gravity of the situation is clear – Sarah is in distress, her body limp and unresponsive, her breaths shallow and labored.

With swift, decisive movements, Dr. Martinez retrieves the fallen paddles and places them back on the defibrillator unit, his hands trembling slightly with adrenaline. But even as he does so, he knows that time is of the essence – Sarah's life hangs in the balance, and every second counts.

Without hesitation, Dr. Martinez reaches for the code blue button, his thumb pressing down on the button with a sense of grim determination. The shrill sound of the alarm echoes through the hospital corridors, summoning the medical team to Sarah's bedside with a sense of urgency.

As the sound of footsteps fills the room and voices clamor for attention, Dr. Martinez focuses all his attention on Sarah, his mind racing with the knowledge that her life is in his hands. With practiced precision, he begins to assess her vital signs, his fingers moving with purpose as he searches for any signs of life.

As the medical team continues with the harsh CPR compressions and defibrillator shocks, the gel glistens on Sarah's chest, a stark reminder of the relentless battle being waged to bring her back from the brink of death.

With each compression, Sarah's body jerks with the force of the impact, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of life being forced back into her lungs. The room is filled with the sound of shouts and commands, the urgency of the situation driving the medical team to push themselves to the limit in their efforts to save her.

Dr. Martinez watches with a mixture of determination and desperation, his hands moving with practiced precision as he directs the resuscitation efforts. Though the odds may seem insurmountable, Dr. Martinez the defibrillator paddles are charged once again, Dr. Martinez braces himself for the next shock, his heart pounding in his chest with anticipation. With a steady hand, he delivers the shock, the electric current coursing through Sarah's body with a force that threatens to break her fragile form.

As Dr. Martinez gazes into Sarah's blank, unseeing eyes, a pang of guilt tugs at his heartstrings. The weight of responsibility bears down on him like a heavy burden, threatening to suffocate him with its enormity. He knows that Sarah's fate now lies in his hands, and the pressure to save her life feels almost unbearable.

With steady hands and a mind clouded with worry, Dr. Martinez reaches for the intubation equipment, his movements automatic yet precise. The familiar routine of inserting the endotracheal tube feels like second nature to him, but this time, the stakes are higher than ever before.

As he positions the tube and guides it into Sarah's airway, he can't help but feel a sense of unease gnawing at the edges of his conscience. The guilt of knowing that he bears the weight of Sarah's life on his shoulders threatens to overwhelm him, but he pushes the feelings aside, focusing all his attention on the task at hand.

With the tube securely in place, Dr. Martinez takes a moment to catch his breath, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts and fears.

With Sarah's intubation completed, the medical team continues their rigorous efforts, their movements synchronized and precise. Each compression drives deep into Sarah's chest, causing her ribs to bend under the relentless pressure. Her belly bounces in response, her feet sway off the side of the bed, and her arms hang limply, bouncing with each forceful thrust.

Dr. Martinez stands at the forefront, his eyes never leaving Sarah's lifeless form. The urgency in the room is palpable, the air thick with tension as the team works tirelessly to bring her back from the brink. The gel glistens on her chest, a stark reminder of the desperate measures being taken to revive her.

Minutes feel like hours as the cycle of CPR and defibrillation continues. The defibrillator paddles deliver shock after shock, the electric current surging through Sarah's body with unrelenting force. Her body convulses with each jolt, a macabre dance of life and death playing out before their eyes.

Despite their efforts, Sarah's heart refuses to find its rhythm. Dr. Martinez checks her pupils once more, finding them still fixed and dilated. The weight of the situation presses down on him, each second that passes without a heartbeat driving home the grim reality of their fight.

As they approach the 20-minute mark, a nurse suggests considering the cessation of their efforts. Dr. Martinez hesitates, his mind racing with the gravity of the decision. Just as he begins to accept the inevitable, Sarah's heart converts to ventricular fibrillation. Seizing this final glimmer of hope, Dr. Martinez orders another round of shocks.

The team responds with renewed intensity, the defibrillator charging to its maximum capacity. The paddles are pressed against Sarah's chest once more, and the room holds its collective breath as the shock is delivered. Sarah's body jolts violently, her muscles contracting with the force of the electric current.

But despite their valiant efforts, Sarah's heart remains stubbornly unresponsive. Another 10 minutes of rigorous CPR and defibrillation pass, the team's energy waning with each passing second. The reality of the situation becomes increasingly undeniable.

Finally, with a heavy heart, Dr. Martinez makes the call. "Time of death: 11:42 AM," he announces, his voice thick with sorrow. The room falls silent, the weight of their failure hanging heavy in the air.

The medical team steps back, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. Dr. Martinez looks down at Sarah's still form, a sense of profound loss washing over him. Despite their best efforts, they were unable to save her. He removes his gloves, the sound of the latex snapping echoing in the room, a stark reminder of the battle they fought and lost.

As the team begins to clean up, Dr. Martinez lingers for a moment longer, his thoughts heavy with the weight of what has transpired. He knows that they did everything they could, but the sense of guilt and responsibility remains, a burden he will carry with him long after he leaves this room.

#cpr #resus #resuscitation #defib #defibrillator #hospital #female #resus writing #resus community

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bodyswappertransforming · 18 days

Text

Michael had always been an unassuming man—short, with a lean, almost scrawny frame. His sandy brown hair was neatly combed every morning, his blue eyes hidden behind thick, wire-rimmed glasses. He wore khakis and button-down shirts, his uniform for the office job he had held for the past ten years. His face was smooth, clean-shaven, with barely a hint of stubble at the end of the day. His lips were thin, his nose small, and his teeth, though well-maintained, were slightly yellowed from years of drinking too much coffee. He stood at 5'8", his posture slightly hunched, as though he was always trying to make himself appear smaller, less noticeable. He spoke in a quiet, polite tone, his vocabulary precise and his diction careful, a habit formed from years of striving to meet the expectations of his superiors. His voice was soft, almost timid, and he had a slight lisp that he was always self-conscious about. His movements were deliberate, cautious, as if afraid to take up too much space. His life was ordered, predictable, and devoid of excitement—he liked it that way.

One day, Michael’s quiet existence was upended when he was approached by a mysterious man in a leather jacket, standing outside his office building as he left for lunch. The man exuded a raw, dangerous energy, his heavily tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. “You look like a man who needs a change,” the stranger said, his voice rough, gravelly.

Michael frowned, instinctively shrinking back. “I—I’m not sure what you mean,” he stammered.

The man grinned, a predatory smile that made Michael’s skin crawl. “You’ve been living in that little box for too long. It’s time you broke out, man. I can help you with that.”

Before Michael could respond, the man handed him a business card. “Come to this address tonight. Trust me—you won’t regret it.”

Despite his better judgment, something about the man’s words stuck with Michael, gnawing at the back of his mind. That night, he found himself standing outside a nondescript building on the outskirts of town, the address on the card. A heavy metal door opened before he even knocked, and he was ushered inside by a couple of burly men, their arms covered in tattoos.

Inside, Michael was led to a dimly lit room where several men and women in lab coats were waiting. The walls were lined with strange, futuristic equipment that hummed with energy. At the center of the room was a large, sleek chair, almost like a dentist’s chair but outfitted with straps and electrodes.

“What is this place?” Michael asked, his voice trembling.

A woman in a lab coat approached him, her expression professional. “This is where transformations happen. We’ve been monitoring you for a while, Mr. Hamilton. You’ve been selected for a very special process.”

Michael shook his head, stepping back. “I didn’t sign up for anything. I—I don’t want to—”

“It’s too late for that,” the woman interrupted, her tone firm. “You were chosen because you need this. Your life is stagnant. This will change everything.”

Before Michael could protest further, the men who had led him inside grabbed him by the arms and forced him into the chair, strapping him down. Panic surged through him, but he was powerless to resist. The electrodes were attached to his temples, his chest, and his limbs. The woman flipped a switch, and a low hum filled the room as the machine powered up.

“We’re going to reprogram you,” she explained calmly. “You’re going to become someone new—someone better.”

The process began with a sharp jolt of electricity, causing Michael’s body to convulse. His vision blurred, his thoughts became disjointed, and he felt an overwhelming heat building within him. The pain was excruciating, yet somehow, it was also exhilarating—a primal energy coursing through his veins, burning away the old Michael and forging something new in its place.

His body began to change rapidly. His lean frame thickened, muscle piling on muscle, stretching his skin tight over his new form. His legs, once thin and spindly, grew powerful and thick, his calves bulging, his thighs like tree trunks. His chest expanded, his shoulders broadening, and his biceps swelled, stretching the straps that held him down. The hair on his arms, legs, and chest thickened and darkened, spreading until his once smooth skin was covered in a dense layer of fur.

His face was the next to change. His chin jutted forward, more pronounced and angular, as his jaw widened, his teeth sharpening. His nose broadened, his lips thickened, and a coarse beard sprouted across his jawline, dark and wild. His eyebrows became thick and heavy, shading his now piercing, ice-blue eyes. His sandy brown hair darkened to a deep, rich black, growing out long and wild, hanging down to his shoulders.

His penis, once average and unremarkable, grew thicker, longer, and more veined, a symbol of his newfound virility. His ass, once flat and unnoticeable, filled out, becoming round and muscular. His voice, when he finally screamed out in a mixture of pain and ecstasy, was deep, rough, and commanding—completely unrecognizable from the soft, timid voice he had before.

When the transformation was complete, the straps were released, and Michael—no, not Michael anymore, he realized—stumbled to his feet. He caught a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror on the other side of the room and froze. The reflection staring back at him was that of a man he had never seen before—a hulking, tattooed, bearded biker. His new body was a masterpiece of raw, rugged masculinity.

He flexed his arms, marveling at the power he felt coursing through his muscles. He ran a hand through his thick beard, tugging at it to feel the coarse, bristly texture. He reached down, grasping his now massive, throbbing cock, and grinned wickedly at the sight. He was a beast, a primal force of nature.

“Welcome to your new life,” the woman in the lab coat said, smiling with satisfaction. “How do you feel?”

He looked up at her, his eyes blazing with a newfound confidence. “I feel… incredible,” he growled, his voice dripping with a rough, almost animalistic quality.

She nodded. “You’ll need a new name. You’re not Michael Hamilton anymore. What will you call yourself?”

He thought for a moment, then grinned. “Razor,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue like a threat.

“Razor,” she repeated, as if trying it out for herself. “It suits you. There’s a gang waiting for you—The Iron Fist. They’ve been informed of your transformation and are eager to meet you.”

Razor dressed in the clothes they provided him—heavy leather boots, worn jeans, a black T-shirt that clung to his muscular frame, and a leather vest emblazoned with the gang’s emblem on the back. He slipped on fingerless gloves, relishing the feel of the rough leather against his calloused hands.

As he pulled on the vest, his old life seemed to fade away completely. He no longer felt any attachment to the meek, forgettable man he had once been. His mind was filled with new desires, new instincts. He wanted to ride, to fight, to fuck. He craved the open road, the smell of gasoline and leather, the thrill of the chase. He wanted to dominate, to prove himself, to take whatever—and whoever—he wanted.

Razor smirked at his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his vest. The man in the mirror was a warrior, a predator, a leader. He was everything Michael Hamilton had never been.

He stepped out of the room, his new boots echoing on the concrete floor, his gait now confident and powerful. He felt the heavy thud of his boots with each step, his legs moving with a grace and strength that was entirely new to him. He moved with a swagger, his hips rolling with each step, his broad shoulders swaying slightly as he walked. The men outside the room stared at him with a mixture of respect and fear.

One of the technicians, a grizzled man with a long gray beard, handed him a cigar. “Here, you’ll need this,” he said, lighting it for Razor.

Razor took a long drag, savoring the rich, earthy flavor. The smoke curled up around his face, mixing with the scent of leather and sweat. It was intoxicating, and he felt a surge of pleasure as he exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into the air. He licked his lips, tasting the cigar’s lingering bitterness. The old Michael Hamilton had never smoked a cigar in his life, but for Razor, it felt like second nature.

“So,” Razor said, his voice now a deep, rumbling growl, “where’s this gang of mine?”

“They’re waiting for you outside,” the technician replied, nodding towards the door.

Razor strode outside, the cool night air hitting his face. The parking lot was filled with roaring motorcycles, the men mounted on them rough, tough, and tattooed—his new brothers. One of them, a massive man with a shaved head and a thick beard, grinned as Razor approached.

“Razor, right?” the man said, his voice booming over the noise of the bikes.

“That’s right,” Razor growled back, his grin matching the man’s.

“Welcome to The Iron Fist,” the man said, slapping

#male transformation #bodyswap #mental change #personality change #fantasy #male body swap #male tf #disguise transformation #gay #reality change #biker boy #leather trousers #leather biker #skin suit #male muscle growth #male to female transformation #male body switch #male skinsuit

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ghostlyglimmer · 29 days

Text

Lockjaw

Summary:

Missing for three weeks, Danny finally escapes, only to be found dead and taken to a funeral home. But death isn’t the end—Danny awakens on the embalming table with his jaw wired shut and terrifying new powers. Disoriented and desperate, he must find his way home, knowing nothing will ever be the same again. CW: Gore

Chapter 1: Bring me to Life

By GhostlyGlimmer

Anita Grayves stretched her back, each vertebra popping with a satisfying crack as she exhaled a long sigh. The dim, sterile light of the embalming room cast a clinical glow over her as she donned her PPE, the familiar rustle of the fabric and snap of the gloves a ritual she knew too well. Her technician, Dalton, rolled in the gurney with the next client, the wheels creaking slightly on the cold tile floor. With deliberate care, he unzipped the black body bag, revealing the still form inside.

Danny Fenton, just seventeen years old, lay before her. His once vibrant eyes, now milky white and clouded, stared unseeingly at the ceiling. The raven-black hair that had probably once been meticulously styled was now disheveled, a sharp contrast to the pallor of his skin. He was small for his age, almost fragile-looking, and Anita couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow as she gazed down at him.

But it was the Y-shaped scar on his chest that made her pause. Her brow furrowed in deep thought. She had seen countless autopsy scars in her career, but this was different. The coroner’s report had mentioned it wasn’t a typical dissection; it was a vivisection. The word sent a chill down her spine. She had heard stories, whispers of unsanctioned procedures, but she never thought she’d be the one to witness the aftermath.

Taking a deep breath, Anita began the embalming process. The familiar hum of the pump filled the room as she attached the trocar to his abdomen, starting the slow, methodical draining of blood from the body. The crimson fluid seeped out, replaced with embalming chemicals that would preserve what remained, ensuring the semblance of life for his final viewing.

With the embalming fluids circulating, she moved on to setting his face. It was important that he looked peaceful, almost as if he were merely sleeping. She began with his mouth, loading the needle injector with a barbed-tipped wire. The tool clicked as she pressed it against the maxilla, the wire piercing through the bone with precision. She repeated the process with the mandible, then twisted the wires together, securing his jaw in place. There would be no risk of it coming loose during the funeral, sparing his family the distress of seeing him slack-jawed in the casket.

Next were his eyes. Anita carefully pulled back his eyelids, reaching for the eye caps—small, clear discs with barbed spikes on the inside. They would help his eyes maintain a natural, slightly closed appearance, preventing the sunken look that so often accompanied death. She was inches away from placing them on his clouded eyes when her stomach let out a loud grumble.

“Damn it,” she muttered, the sudden urge reminding her of the coffee she had downed earlier.

Reluctantly, she pushed back her rolling chair, the casters scraping against the tile. She stripped off her PPE, each piece coming off with a practiced flick, and headed for the bathroom. The small, clinical space echoed with the sound of her footsteps as she entered, the door clicking shut behind her. She hurried through her business, then paused at the sink, methodically scrubbing her hands. As she looked up into the mirror, her reflection stared back at her—haggard, with dark circles etched under her tired eyes. She grimaced, making a mental note to try and get some sleep tonight.

Just as she turned off the faucet, the lights flickered, followed by a low, otherworldly groan that seemed to reverberate through the walls. Anita froze, her heart skipping a beat. It was a sound unlike anything she had heard before—something between a wail and a whisper, as if the air itself was being torn apart. A chill ran down her spine, and she stood there, paralyzed, staring at her own reflection, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Ȃ̵̢̡͕̲͍̺̬̩̪̯͖̝̤̱̖̮̼̝͎̭͇̖̥̫̒̈́̔̃̎̄̌̿̍͘̕͝A̵̡̨̙͇͚̥̦͚͙̘̝̤͎͙͒̽̃̒́́͛̉̂͋͝ͅÄ̶̧̨̢̛̛͖̭̠̤͈͈̘͔̣͔̱͇̱̜̯͎͚͍̩͚̺̦̜͑̑̓͂͋͌̄͜͠͠͝Ą̴̧̢̢̧̢̝̱̻̥̹̖͕̦̠̬͙̭̜̣̱͓͚̗̗̬̮̙̤̲͇̟͚̣̜̜̼̹̻̮͇̟̤̹̩̬͕͖̖͙̤́̈́̓́̾ͅͅA̷̧̡̢̨̧̩͙̥̥̘̘͚̞̣̮̣̯̮͔͚͈̤͙̦͈͕͙̣̳̝͈̩͙͇̲̳͈͈͖͙̦̥͈̗̠̖̣̐̇̇̆͒͂͗̃̾̀̆̈́̽͆̆̕̚Ą̷̧̨̥̠̦͙͍̘̬̥̘͕̦͚̫̣̱̤͎̹̰̣̥̰̥̟̘̜̗̪̫̘̤̱̈́́͐̌͛̄̀͆́̓͂͛̈́̇̉͜͝͠Ą̸̢̡̞̻̪͎͔͕̠̗̖͈̲̯͓̜̝̭̼͎̟͕̀̌̀̈́̑̏̑͐́̋̄͌̏́̈́͋̈́̊̋̓̓̀̏̏̀͝͝ͅA̷̧̡̧̧̛̛̠̘̻̮̱̦̠̦̣̫̩̬͚̦̳̮͙͎̞̞̗̮̩̩̪͓̩̻̪̱̰͉̼̮̞͖̒͋͐́͒͗̒̋̑͂̅̎̾̀̓̔̋̇̈́͑̆͐̌͌̑̌̋̅̔͘̕̚͝ͅA̴̛̛̛͙̮͌̌̅̀̊̅́̉̈́͆̅͑̐̏̄͆̈͗̒͐̓́̀͊̆̔̅̄͂͊̃̍̽̈́̊͌̀̿͛̓̈́͗̆̓͋̈̑̚̚͝͠͝͝À̷̢̧̡̢̙̪̰̮̼͙̣̜̭̦̞͓̩̝̣̙͕̞͙̳͇̦͉̼̜̠͈͔̰̺̟̜̳͍͚̥̺̫̈́͛̾̌̊́̿͊̈́̑̓͌̕̕͝ͅA̷̧̨̧̧̧͍̦̖̖̭̪̭̞̦̹͎͈͕̖̮̙͇̪̥̣͕̪̫͓͙̖̜̙͍͉̭̺̘̰̞̰̯͓̔̐̂͋͋̀̓̍̓̉͑̇͊̊̃̈́̌̅͑͆̍̑̋͑̍̔̂̒̀͗͌̇̂̆̈́̂́̈́̉̀͗́̐͛̇͆̂̀͂̔͐͛́̈́̉̃̕͘͝͝͝͝ͅĄ̷̥̗͕̙͍̭̠̮́̈̀͗̈̏̅̓̓̄̈͆̄̈́̃̌͒̓͑͐̉̔̉́͗̌̍͆́̍̆̕̚͘͜͝A̷̧̙͓̫͚͐͐̉̈́̾̍̇́͋̎̆͒̆͒̋̌̕Ą̵̨̡̧̧̢̢͓̯̤̹͙̘͈̹̭̥̪̬͕̜̦̠̻͓̫̤͈̜̣̲͙̬̦̣̺̖̞̗͎̙̙̩̯͍̱̥̝̖̅̀̋͊̇̉̔̈́̈́͗̇͗̈́͋̇̆͐͌̽̓̾̀̀̀̏͒̑̉̔͂̚͜͜͜ͅͅA̸̧̡̨̡̢̻̜͓͚͖̞͚̜̞̙̻̥̠̞̰͔̠̗͎̝̖͇̳̎̀̄̌̒̓͒̐̎̚͠Ạ̴̧̢̫̣̻̬̮̙̫̯̪̙̻͈̟̪̳̅͆͗̌̓̒̍͗̅͊́̏̃͐͑̃́͆̒̍̓̍̈̔͑̾̽̽̐͗̂̑̋́͌̚̕͝͠͠͠Å̵̧̨̢̡̛̯̻̬̻͈̩̹̜͓͎̣̜̥͔̜̩̟̞͓͓̠̬̬̟̜͓͓̲̻͚̟̦͇͓̰͕̲̝̳̺͕̝̭̣͕͈̥̲̪͎͎̻̟͚̖̋͋̀̋́́̊̎̐̀͊̑̊̾̓̈͛͒̄̊̀̕̚͜͠͝ͅͅA̶̛̛͕͈̻̺̲̤̳̖̋̓̀͋́͗̀͒̃̈́̉̅̉̉͑͑̋̅̃͒̎͋̎̏́̓͌̆͋ͅȦ̵͖̪̘͛̋͒͠͝ͅĄ̴̧̨̢̛̦̱̦̺̩̞̟̲̻̬͈̪̖̬̯̝̝̲̰̣̩̯̫͈̫̪̜̳͇̮͖̪̱̠̹̤̰͓̭͕̥̹̣̀̅̉̒̃̽͊̆̊̈́̄̐͌́̓̾̓̍̌͑̓͌͊̾̊̂͒͌̀̔͒̕͘͘͘͜͜͝͠͝ͅÄ̶̢̢̱̯̰̟̙͇͔̰̗̜̦̤̪̟̞̪͍̞̟̠̰̗̬̖͎͓̰̫́̈́̊̈́̒A̷̧̢̢̛̹͇̩͎͎̥̱͔͉̞͍͕̠̮͔̭̪͔̜̜̘̰̞͇̱̙͖̮̞̖͉͚̯̟͙̞̫̭͔̰̞͙̗̱̹̺̰͖̭̮͚̪̩͒͑̽̉̋̔͗͗̃̊̀̽̾̿̒̍͗͑̇̅̒͛̈́́̍̿̒̾̊͋́̃̃̈́͂̔̀͐̿̆͌̑̐̀̚͜͝͠ͅͅA̴̡̢̢̧̡̧̛̯͔̭̝̪̰̳̭͚̗̣̼͕̗̟͈͔̩͖̪̖̪͈̝͉̭̭̝̳̘̠̬̩̰̳̳͍̘̫̪̓̀̾̉́̿͂̓̾̎́͐͑̄̉̿̈̍̅̎̏̈́̓͘͝͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅA̶̙͇͎̤̓̿͗́̄̔̆͋̋͆̒̔͐́̽̄͒̎̏͛̂̅̒̋̽̈̋͂͐͐̎̅̌̋̾͑͌͋͐͘̕̕͝͝Ḁ̶̧̡̨̡̢̛̛̰̫̰͓͍̥̝̤̤͕̟̬͕̺͔̻̯̗̠̺̯̬̲̠̳̗͇͇̖̳̙͈͖͕͚͖̖̟̻͉̼̈̈͆̉͊̃̐́̎̊̌́̆̓͆̈̉́̅̆͌͐̽͌̀͒̽̌̿͐̀̽̈́́͋̑̕͘̚͜͜͠͝͝͠ͅA̷̡̨̢̛͕̟̜̰̼͔̠͉͈̼̫͚̟͈̻̖͛̍̍̇̑̐̓̓̀͠Ą̷̱̲̱̳̦͔̥̼̠͕̠̟͎̣̘̮͉̖̗̙̗̞̣̟̈́̾̽̿̍͌̚͘͜͠A̴̡̛̹̗̥̯͇̥̙̣̙̜̰̪̰̘͈͐̌̃̓̌̾̿̃̈͒͋̃̐͒̔̍̈́̓͑̓́̔̔̒͂̐̉̀͋͆͌͂̾͘͘͝͝͠͠Ā̶̡̛̛̖̳̟͕͖̻̲͓̦͈͓͚͈̺͍͙̲̗̒̐̍̂̆͋̈̃͑̽̉̓̃̇͘Ą̴̨̛̣͓̞̪̱̰̜͂̏̀̆͒̀̿͆̑͊̿̈́̑͋̀̌̾̀̈́̾̽̈̈́͐͊̀̒̈́̇͒̈́̀̐̌͒͋͌͊̉̂͒̄̒̇̇̐̕͘͘͘͠͝͝͝͝͝Ā̷̛̛̬͙̠͉̰̼̼̦͉͕̤͈͙̯̈́̿̅̊̋̽̈́̓͌̈́̏͋̍͌͑̆́̄̂̍̿̉̑̈́͊̀͐̈́͋́͆̌̉̀̔̂̍̍̾́̔̕̚̕̕͜͜͝͝A̷̡̧̡̢̨̡̡̢̢̘͉̭̠̖͈̠̭̖̞̭̞͎̤͚͕͔͖͚͇͇̯̟̝̪̖̦͙͙͇̳̪̼̮̫̥̲̲̙͔̟̭͈̺̺͚̬̱͓̠͒̎́̒͐͋͒͂̍̈́̅̐̇͜͜͠Ą̷̢̡̢̢̛̲̝͉͓̺͉̣͇͖̺̜̝̗̹̥̩͎͔͕̦͉͍̜͉͔̫̟̥͓̯̬̖̣͙͍̭͇͔̱̺͈͈̱͗̓̽̒̐͂̓̿͒͊̓̌̅̈́̉̅̓̎̈́̎͗̈́̍̌̒̂̈́̋̐͋̓̆́́̈̇̂͐̔͘̕͝͝A̴̢̡̛̭͈̺̥͇͓̟̻͔̪͇̝̰̱̮͇̦͕̞͙̘̤̻̺̐̎̇̉̓́̐͂́̀͌̽̋̒̀̋͊̀̾͒̓̇̽̂́͛̓̀̓̄̉́̅̀̾͒͌̈́̐͐̑̈́͒́̌̈́̿̽̾̃̽̀͋͛͘͜À̶̡̧̧̨̨̛̛̮̹͓̥̠̱̱̯̪̹̹̮̳͔̞̫̗̹̘͙͙̝̘̳̠̠̳̱̺̗̳̬̰̤̩̖͙̬̥͔̬͈̭̳̬̻̼̐̎͌͆̎̈́̀͆͌̒̅̾͂̋̍̏̈́͛͆̓̊͐͊̄̀̂͐̽̓̍͊͆̚̚̕͜͠͠͝͝Ą̷̧̛̛̛̛͈͖̞͓̱̦̬̣̭̗͍̤̣̦̯̪̹̘̟̙͈̼̬͑̿͊̈͑͛͒͗̑̀͆̏̒̓̃̊̏̐̉̿̄͒̂͛̈̀̂̈͋̀͗̃̆̏̾̏͐̂͂̊̈́̏̐̉͆̂̍̓̚͘̚͘̕͝͝͝͝ͅͅÁ̴̡̢̧̢̩̰͔̰͈͖̬̯̱̙̱̣̭̟͇͙̦̭̣̱͉͇͚̗͌͋͘͜Ä̵̧̛̝̘̼͇̬̭̼̬̠̞̩̩̜̤̰͙͔̼̬̟̟̫͓̥͇̱͕̦̜͙͚̪͚̩̱̟̗̥͙͇̩̞̬̞̗̥̻̘͓̹̻̰̫̙̯̗̹̹́̐͐̎̇̿͗̊͂̏́̂̋̀͆̆̾̄͑͑̽̌̈́̄͋͋̈̂̆̐̀́͌́̎̋̅͘͜͝͝͝͝͠ͅA̷̧̢̡͇̣͈̥̻̗͓͈͖͔̭̩̪͎͍̻̥̝͈̝̭̤͍̘̺̥̲͉̰̦͓̫͇͓͙͙̣̼̫͇͛̋͒͐̄́̔̓͐̅͒͆̏̅̎̇́̚̚͜͜͜ͅ

Anita jolted at the horrific sound, the air around her vibrating with an unnatural, bone-chilling resonance. Her hands flew to her ears in a desperate attempt to block out the noise, but it was too late. A searing pain shot through her head, her vision darkening as her eyes rolled back. She crumpled to the cold, sterile floor, her body limp, blood trickling from her ears and pooling beneath her head in a dark, crimson stain.

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton’s eyes shot open in terror. His pupils contracted painfully against the blinding fluorescence of the room, his breath catching in his throat. His mind, sluggish and disoriented, struggled to make sense of what was happening. His hands moved instinctively to his face, rubbing his eyes as if trying to erase a bad dream.

But this was no dream.

As his vision cleared, he looked around, taking in the stark white walls and the cold steel surfaces of the embalming room. The air was thick with the acrid scent of formaldehyde, stinging his nose and making him gag. Panic surged through him as he realized he was completely naked, save for a thin cloth draped haphazardly over his waist.

But it was when his gaze fell on his chest that the true horror set in.

There, etched into his skin, was a large, brutal Y-shaped scar, stretching from his shoulders to his pubic bone. The sight of it made his stomach churn. His face contorted in terror, a scream tearing from his throat, raw and primal. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each one more desperate than the last, as he clutched his head in his hands, trying to comprehend the impossible. The room seemed to close in around him, the sterile environment suffocating, the silence after his scream deafening.

Danny was alive—but something was horribly, irrevocably wrong.

As Danny’s scream echoed in the sterile room, he froze, realizing something was terribly wrong with his voice. It wasn’t his voice. It was distorted, hollow, like a death rattle echoing from the depths of a crypt. The sound made his skin crawl, every hair on his body standing on end. It was the kind of voice that belonged to something not of this world—something dead. He slapped his hands over his mouth, horrified, tears welling up in his cloudy white eyes.

He felt something hard under his lips and pulled them open, trembling fingers probing inside his mouth. His breath hitched when he encountered metal wires, woven cruelly through his teeth. Panic surged through him, and he tried to wrench his jaw open, but it wouldn’t budge. A sharp, searing pain shot through his skull, and he winced, the realization of his confinement crashing down on him.

Tears streamed down his face, his entire body quaking with fear and confusion. Sobs wracked his fragile form, the reality of his situation suffocating him. This couldn’t be happening—this had to be a nightmare. What the hell was going on? Why was he connected to this machine? Why was there a grotesque wound carved into his chest? And why, oh God, why was his jaw wired shut?

His mind spiraled, grasping desperately for memories, for anything that could explain this horror. But everything was a blur, a foggy haze that clouded his thoughts. He couldn’t think straight, his head pounding with the effort of trying to piece together the fragments of his shattered memory.

But through the chaos, one thought pierced the fog: he needed help. He needed to find his family, his friends. He clung to the memory of them like a lifeline, the only clear images in his fractured mind. Sam and Tucker—they would know what to do. They had always been there for him, through every strange and terrifying moment of his life. If anyone could help him make sense of this nightmare, it was them. He had to find them. He had to get out of here.

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pwlanier · 20 days

Text

A CRAY-1 SUPERCOMPUTER

CRAY RESEARCH, INC., 1976-8

Serial Number 12

Arranged in a central C-shaped core, with alternating red and yellow panels, the 4th panel replaced with perspex for internal viewing, external cushioned seating, with first two panels lifting to reveal compressor.

One of the most aesthetically striking breakthroughs in supercomputing history.

Announced in 1975, this pioneering supercomputer was designed by the visionary engineer Seymour Cray and produced by Cray Research, with an original price tag of almost $8 million. It heralded a new epoch in high-performance computing and stands as a tangible monument to an era when the boundaries of speed and capability were pushed to unprecedented heights.

The Cray-1, known for its distinctive C-shaped design, represents a stark departure from the rectilinear configurations of its predecessors. It is both an aesthetic triumph and a paradigm shift in functional innovation. The unique shape reduced the length of wiring within the machine, thereby enhancing its speed and efficiency—a critical consideration when milliseconds could mean the difference between groundbreaking discoveries and computational impasses. At the heart of it lies its unparalleled processing power. Capable of performing 160 million floating-point operations per second (FLOPS), the Cray-1 quickly became the fastest computer in the world upon its release. This extraordinary capability enabled scientists and researchers to tackle complex problems in fields such as meteorology, computational chemistry, and physics simulations with a level of precision and speed previously unattainable. The Cray-1 was instrumental in modelling intricate phenomena, from weather patterns to nuclear reactions, pushing the frontiers of scientific research.

Christie’s

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cutsiewitch · 6 months

Text

A Mechanic’s Worries about Pilots.

A gifted mechanic is called in to service a pilot. As The Mechanic begins to head towards her station to work on the pilot, she can’t help but ruminate on her feelings about pilots. She honestly doesn’t like them.

It’s not a personal thing, she’s sure that they were great people at one point, but it’s hard to see them like that anymore. She finds the whole thing creepy and offputting. She see’s what they do to pilots, knows how they’re made. She probably understands the process more than anybody on the base. She’s a prodigy in mecha suit engineering, which also includes pilot systems.

It makes her uncomfortable. The pilots are treated like objects, tools of war. That’s what they are too, what they’re made to be. Their skulls are full of tech that hooks them straight into their mechs, their brains fried with dopamine and other kinds of chemical soup to reward them when they shoot targets into slag. They even end up sharing the space in their head with the onboard ai’s of their mechs. They’re locked into the mechanical nerves and metal muscles of the mech. It makes them amazing killing machines, but their minds are practically crippled outside of the suits, raw and untethered, ungrounded.

The weirdest thing to her is they seem so happy. It doesn’t even look like it’s just the chemicals, it can’t be. They like it, whatever fucked up experience they’re having, it’s making them happy as can be. They want to get back into the suits, they want to push more. They like getting bossed around like dogs by their handlers. They love their ai’s almost like some weird fusion of a lover, a sibling, and a reflection. They can barely even articulate how they feel, most don’t bother, but The Mechanic has worked in this business long enough to learn anyways.

She gets to her workshop. It’s honestly kind of pathetic, barely worthy of the name. She knows that the pilots are treated as tools, but mechanics aren’t treated much better. Human but still not really worthy of respect. They work her and the other mechanics like slaves, cramping them into the crawl spaces where stuff needs fixing. Even with her advanced position all they afford her is this broom closet from hell. The room is cramped and humid, like a small metal sauna. It’s still marginally better than the communal workshop. Even with the bigger and more open room it still somehow manages to be claustrophobic and hot.

The Pilot is already there, sitting on her workbench, completely naked. The Mechanic isn’t surprised, but her face still burns with heat as she blushes when seeing The Pilot’s bare ass resting on the same giant hunk of tungsten-steel alloy she uses to fix delicate parts and machinery. The Pilot’s augs are invasive and take up a good portion of its body. Its arms, its legs, and a good portion of its back are more machine than human at this point. Normally the jumpsuits account for this, but those would get in the way of repairs. Normal clothes would too, and developing some kind of modesty cover for them is more trouble than it’s worth for the higher ups. They don’t have to deal with the nudity, and it’s not like the pilots even care.

The Mechanic wipes the sweat from her brow and crosses the room. She doesn’t actually acknowledge The Pilot aside from the blushing, but The Pilot’s gaze follows her as she makes her way over to a box of tools. She sets the box down next to The pilots thigh and pulls over the ratty stool she uses for a chair.

She starts servicing The Pilot. She pulls out delicate tools and with ingrained precision she begins opening up The Pilot’s augs, starting with the legs and going up. She hooks its systems up to an old box of a diagnostics unit and begins manually inspecting the parts. She pulls wires aside with tiny fractions of force and checks on the tiny sensors and servos that are no bigger than her fingernail, cleaning them with tiny swabs and lubricating them with drops of oil.

The entire time she keeps hearing weird noises. Soft whines and sounds of scraping play at the edge of her attention, distracting her just the tiniest amount. The Mechanic can’t tell where the noises are coming from, and it’s bothering the shit out of her. When she takes a step back to unfocus and wipe the sweat from her forehead, she sees where it’s coming from.

It’s the pilot. It’s breathing heavily, like it’s exhausted. Its face is almost as flushed as The Mechanic’s when she walked in. The metal tips of its fingers scratch at the polished surface of her workbench. Jesus fucking christ, was The Pilot turned on right now? With the face it was making it had to be.

Fuck, now The Mechanic was thrown way off. It was already hard enough to try and pretend this was just normal machine servicing when all of the machinery was attached to a sweaty, naked girl, it was impossible to do it when she knew it was getting off to her poking around in its augments.

The Mechanic just couldn’t get back into the same groove she had before. Every stifled moan disrupted her concentration. Every squirm messed up her precise motions. Everything just kept bringing her back into the moment, where her face was inches away from the pilot’s crotch.

The Mechanic slogged through the rest of the grueling work, doing her best to try and travel into that little place in the back of her mind where she could just stop thinking and do what she was good at. She finished with the legs and then told the pilot directly to lay down so she could begin on her arms.

The Pilot laid down like it was told. The Mechanic scooted her stool forward and raised the seat for a better vantage. In the end the new position wasn’t all that much better than the old. The Pilot’s left arm was cradled on The Mechanic’s lap while she popped it open and began working on it.

It was more of the same. Nothing wrong but basic cleanup, which meant The Mechanic wouldn’t be busy enough to zone out. She could see its face clearly now. It looked so human, so lively. When she pressed a sensor its hand tensed and squirmed, pushing against her stomach a bit. A tugged wire elicited a slight yip of surprise. It felt so carnal, to dig into this things innards and just mess around.

Seeing it like this, The Mechanic couldn’t help but wonder about the difference between the two. Right now it looked just as human as she was, so she couldn’t apply the same cold business mentality she usually did with her work. She felt like they were almost one in the same. I mean, look at it, being a pilot can’t be so bad, right?

The Mechanic’s thoughts ground to a halt. Her surprise was so sudden it caused her to tweak a wire hard enough to get The Pilot to let out a proper yelp. Neither could tell if it was a yelp of pleasure or pain.

What had she just thought? Seriously, what the hell was that? Was she serious? Of course being a pilot is bad, being treated like a mindless dog, worked like a machine, and used like a toy. The Mechanic barely knew where that thought had even come from. I mean, it and her were nothing alike.

The Mechanic stewed in those thoughts, trying to reassure herself that she was nothing like it. She wasn’t an it. The Mechanic was a person, and it was just a pilot. The Mechanic tried her best to just focus on the work, but she couldn’t. The thoughts bothered her so much, and she really couldn’t dismiss them.

Because they were alike, very much alike. Not in the sense that The Pilot was a person. In the sense that The Mechanic wasn’t.

The Mechanic couldn’t help but feel it. She was a cog in a much larger machine, a tiny piece. She was treated almost the same as The Pilot

The Mechanic was worked like a dog. She was given shit conditions and forced to do shittier things. She was expendable, one in a million. You could point to almost any outward aspect of the two of them and they would match up.

The thing that frustrated The Mechanic even more was how they were the same on the inside too.

The Mechanic knew what it felt like to become something bigger. Working in the engineering wing was like being in a hive mind. You’re practically shoulder to shoulder with the people next to you. You become parts of the same whole, you work together, you sweat together, you create together. She can’t even remember how many times she had needed something, a part, a tool, a towel, anything, and a mechanic next to her had just known, and given it to her. She knew she had done the same for others all the time.

She could admit to feeling like an it sometimes. Stripped of your identity, down to everything but your use. She didn’t know The Pilot’s name, and The Pilot probably didn’t know her’s. She was a mechanic. She was nothing but the job she did. A function, not a person.

Her head pounded as she adjusted her grip on The Pilot’s arm. Her head buzzed and it felt like her brain was melting in the heat of the room. She could imagine the wires burning up and melting their rubber casings. The copper and metal fusing together into a frenzied mess as her thoughts jumbled into each other.

She shook her head violently. God she was losing it! Her brain wasn’t made of wires, it was made of meat! She wasn’t overheating, she was just getting some kind of headache. She closed up the first arm, not even sure if she was really done, and told the pilot to swap sides through gritted teeth.

She wanted things to be simpler. She wanted to stop thinking. She just wanted to do her job. The Mechanic missed the engineering floor. She missed the absent thrum as she worked alongside her fellow workers, their thoughts synchronizing into a beautiful and productive symphony. She wanted to be a part of that, of it. She just wanted to be a Mechanic, that was so much easier than all of this.

Is that why pilot’s are so happy? Are they so content because that’s what it feels like? The Mechanic thought about it in her own terms. Would she give up her body to work more efficiently? Would she open up her mind, just to be even closer with the other mechanics? Would she shed all of the cumbersome weight that thinking like a person had, and just become a simple and unbothered it?

The answer was yes. The Mechanic wanted that. The simple, pure existence of it. The Mechanic wanted to be that, and nothing more. When it realized that, it had a much easier time working on The Pilot’s arm.

It finished up The Pilot’s back in no time too. Without all of the messy thoughts clogging up its head, the whole thing went smoothly. The Pilot was sent on her way, on wobbly legs and with shaky breath. The Mechanic might have messed with it a bit more than necessary, but it liked to consider that a reward, for good behavior.

The Mechanic realized it wanted a bit of a career shift. It thought that if being a mechanic was good, then being a pilot must be great! It loved working on machines, but it wanted that sense of empty completion even more. Plus, it’s not like it won’t be allowed to also do mechanic work still. It would be a lot better for everyone if it got to service its own mech. It would be a win win. The Mechanic wiped down its workbench for the last time, and with renewed vigor, went to sign up to become a pilot.

#empty spaces #mechaposting

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gudmould · 7 months

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± 1 μm, what are techniques of high precision slow wire processing?

Slow wire machine is a high -precision machining machine. Advanced slow wire processing has reached amazing accuracy level. Size and accuracy can be controlled within 1 μm. Precision positioning can achieve control of nano -level equivalent. Surface roughness indicator can reach less than RA0.05 μm.However, some factories do not have concept of precision processing when using a slow wire machine.…

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#high -precision machining #high precision processing #high precision slow wire processin #processing accuracy #rough machining #slow wire processing

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smhalltheurlsaretaken · 2 years

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Not me being mad today about people over exaggerating the "do or do not there is no try" and hating on the Jedi for it as if it's not an idiom about always trying your best and giving it your all (and considering things when you do them) instead of literally saying don't try if you can't succeed. :/

I've always understood "do or do not, there is no try" as "ultimately, you will either have done or not done" - it seems like it's about focusing on the outcome instead of the process.

(As a recap of what exactly happens in ESB: Luke is doing a handstand trying to lift stones with Yoda perched on his leg when the ship suddenly sinks further into the water. It breaks Luke's concentration and his rocks fall, along with him, and Yoda. Luke laments they'll never get the ship back, Yoda laments that Luke always thinks things are too hard to be done, Luke says lifting stones is different, Yoda says it isn't, and Luke agrees to try, which is when Yoda has his iconic line.

And critically, after Luke does try and fail, Yoda gives him a great speech about the nature of the Force and how it binds everything together and Luke despondently says that it's just impossible. Upon which Yoda lifts the ship out of the water, of course, and Luke exclaims that he can't believe it, to which Yoda answers that that's why he's failing.)

Obviously you won't always get things right the first time, and that's precisely what Luke is frustrated about in the scene. And because he's disappointed that he's not getting things right, he doesn't even want to try anymore - his first instinct is to give up because he thinks the situation is beyond fixing.

So the critical point about the quote is that this Yoda shifting the focus: he tells Luke to stop thinking about what he's doing and concentrate on what he wants to do.

This is because of Luke's current state of mind, because Luke is currently associating his own efforts with failure, it's not just a random thing he's saying to make him feel bad.

Everything Star Wars tells us about the Force is that it's used through both intuition and confidence:

That's why the Jedi train so hard from such a young age - you can't doubt yourself or second-guess the Force, or you will get your ass kicked by both the universe and your potential opponents. You have to be able to trust your instincts because you have to rely on them - hence the need to either instill good Force-oriented instincts in kids, or in Luke's case relearn his own base sentient instincts. You can't learn to categorize the material world as 'too heavy,' 'too far,' 'not possible' - you have to focus on the Force, not the physical nature of the objects or your own limitations.

Luke thinks and feels the way a non Force-sensitive would: 'heavy things = can't be lifted.' He was doing okay lifting stones upside down, but he was using his muscles to stand upright, not the Force (hence why he was struggling to stay up and why he fell so easily). His concentration was clouded by material concerns (the loss of the ship and his own powerlessness) so he couldn't maintain it. He sees success as depending on his own conscious efforts but that's just not the way it works, he has to let go because his mind is just not wired right yet and so his efforts are necessarily counterproductive. It's that materialism that Yoda is responding to.

That's the point of Yoda's lesson imo - it's not so much about the technicalities of 'giving it everything you've got,' it's about something much deeper. He is trying to get Luke to radically change his mindset and entire worldview (the 'luminous beings, not this crude matter' quote is from this scene too), because Luke is never going to succeed if he thinks in terms of 'trying.'

If Luke could visualize the starship out of the bog and focus on that, the starship would be out of the bog. If he's focused on trying to lift it out of the bog, then he'll fail because everything in his mind tells him he can't.

Which is exactly what happens.

And the fact is, we know Yoda is 100% right with his advice and that everything he says and teaches in that moment is endorsed by the narrative - because he easily succeeds where Luke kept failing.

Story-wise, it couldn't be clearer that Yoda's advice is good, because it's immediately proven that not following it doesn't yield results, but that following it does.

Like most Jedi maxims, "Do, or do not. There is no try," is circumstantial advice and I'm pretty sure it doesn't show up again in Star Wars canon, be it the movies or TCW (until Rebels that is, when Kanan quotes it to Ezra like it's a rote thing that Yoda used to say all the time and it's kind of 'ah ah' moment because neither of them can figure out what it means). Which is why it kinda bugs me that it was elevated to a Yoda proverb like it's something he says constantly and not just something Luke needed to hear in that moment. It's a banger of a quote though.

#ask #luke skywalker #yoda #empire strikes back #jedi philosophy #esb #meta #anonymous #long post #jedi positivity #the force #my meta

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xjulixred45x · 6 months

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heyyyyyyy!! so i saw that your reqs were open and thought id throw one in since YK- LOVE UR WORK!

and ik ive been requesting this kind of thing only (if u dont wanna do it for this reason, i understand!!) but- Could I please have a Yanplatonic Mephisto/Lucifer/Amaimon x Reader?

This time could you maybe do it with Reader being human, An exwire and completely unrelated to them at all. They hate demons with a passion, But somehow these mfs suddenly decide "yep, new sibling" and surprise adopt kidnap her?

Thanks for considering!! Love your work, Make sure to take breaks if tired!

-TML

YES!!!working on this kind of this is what make Requests so fun!Amaimon will be kind of funny to write🤣 thanks for the Request ❤️

PD: for some reason i imagine this Reader has some Shinobu personality? It's hinch.

Platonic Yandere Mephisto Pheles,Lucifer and Amaimon x Ex-wire! Reader

Genre: Headcanons

Reader: female

Warnings: YANDERE BEHAVIOR, PLATONIC YANDERE, OBSESIVE BEHAVIOR, MENTIONS OF BREAKING READER, FORCED FAMILITY, the three of them TOGHETHER on the title is NOT enough warning?? Illuminati, Amaimon is Mean sometimes--

SPOILERS FROM THE MANGA!!!

As said above, (reader) has a very complicated past with demons, to the point of hating them.

It can honestly be anything, whether your family has been affected by the blue night, by District 13 or simply that your parents have been exorcists who have died in the line of duty.

In any case, (reader) ended up developing a great hatred towards these creatures and decided that she would become an exorcist, in order to get out all that pent-up rage.

In general, I imagine this (reader) as a quite aggressive person and has trouble opening up, so she gets her emotions out through outbursts of anger.

but at the same time he is very intelligent, he uses his environment to his advantage and knows how to take advantage of his resources.

He has what we call "street smarts"

I have no idea who would be the one to take care of (reader) during her training before being Ex-wire, although with her personality, she would run away from any caregiver she had.

(I think the only exception would be Angel because 1- he is strong like that and 2- they share a similar hatred towards demons).

(reader) manages to enter the Ex-wire class, and stands out both for better... and for worse.

First of all, her classmates have a difficult time trying to talk to her (even Shiemi) precisely because of her closed attitude, in addition to the fact that she has constant friction with Izumo and even with Bon.

and most importantly she feels something strange with Rin...

(reader) doesn't know what it is, but she already hates it.

The only one safe from his outbursts is practically Konekomaru (and the weird kid with the puppets, whatever his name is).

It is because of this very fuss that it causes that it ends up attracting the wrong attention.

Mephisto is the first to have interest in (reader)

Not from the beginning as such, no no, although Mephisto had noticed her completely wild attitude compared to her companions (which he found hilarious to say the least) I think it would not be the trigger for him to become interested in (female reader).

I think it's only until (the reader) gets to share her experience, her horrible past with demons, the pure, burning HATE she has for them, that Mephisto finds her very interesting.

Oh humans, so diverse and with many facets~

but Mephisto definitely liked how open she (reader) was in her hatred, that she wasn't looking for moral supremacy or anything like that, she just wanted blood and she loves that!

so he tries to approach in a very unsubtle way and see more of that side knowing how much she hates demons.

appearing out of nowhere in the hallways to scare her and make her curse him, appearing in his dog form in her room to parasite (and then being kicked out) and a long etc.

In this way he not only became involved in the life of (the reader) but also learned more about her in the process, giving emphasis to the growing obsession.

Mephisto wants to know more about this "problematic" student who has caught his interest, whether it is having her academic record or all the information he has and whatever he has, he is not satisfied until he has it all.

It's almost as if I had replaced reading manga with the history of (reader)😅🤣

In this way, now every time he ran into (the reader), Mephisto made jokes and pranks that were increasingly more personal, more intimate.

and that is very scary.

apart from the fact that he behaves in a more... sticky way with (reader).

and that is VERY obvious.

He greets you with a HUG or a pat on the head (no, he doesn't care if you bite him or try to hit him).

and he is even the first to ask (reader) to call him "Oni-chan"

(how fucking disgusting--)

Mephisto is like the older brother who constantly bothers you.

and it is very difficult to get out of its grip.

Do you try to go outside the bedrooms? appears in the form of a dog.

Do you try to go for a walk around campus? appears randomly. It is impossible to surprise him.

But he does have something like an agent that helps him keep (the reader) in line.

That's when Amaimon comes in.

Honestly, he wouldn't be interested in (reader) at first, even though his older brother seemed to have an interest in her.

So, when he told him to keep an eye on her, he didn't think much of it other than it was a nuisance.

While Amaimon finds the task of "taking care of (reader)" annoying, he can't really do much against his brother. Although I think that to have fun from time to time he would make some things happen to (reader) just to make her angry. Like trowing insects at her or even leaving Creepy ass things in her locker.

It's boring for him, better than being a hamster, but extremely boring, so he starts picking on her.

She clearly sees him and curses him every time she sees him about to do something "mischievous" to her or when she hears him commenting on how "weak she is" in training. He thinks it's funny to see her all grumbling.

although eventually it becomes more than that.

Amaimon seems quite carefree, but as time goes by, he takes his "task" of "protecting" (reader) more seriously.

After all, being so weak, who else could take care of her?

He is one of the first to kill for the "well-being" of (reader).

I mean, he can do it as long as it's not one of the Okumura brothers, let him have some fun.

at the same time that he begins to want to have more interaction with (reader) beyond making her angry.

fight, for example.

After all, there must be something about her that caught her older brother's attention. Maybe she has something that he doesn't realize?

although without knowing it he is only falling into the same obsessive trap as his brother.

Once Amaimon becomes a student, rest assured that he will be glued to (reader) and insist that they fight, but she either tells him to fuck off every time or tries to escape from his grasp, without success.

It's like the meme of "fight me You nerd ass punk"🤣

Although don't get me wrong, I think he would be the most manageable of the three, even the "best" brother as far as possible.

(Bonus if you are a distant relative of Shiemihaza, maybe it would explain why Mephisto likes to mess with you so much, to screw with the Vatican)

He already understood that he can't make (the reader) fight with him by bothering her, so now he's simply trying to "figure out" what the hell he does to get there.

although at the same time, being as carefree as he is, he doesn't have so much problem giving (the reader) some time alone and can even distract Mephisto for a while so that she is less irritable.

Amaimon discovers that he actually likes it when (reader) talks and doesn't just grunt.

He's like that awkward brother but if you do him a favor he'll have your back, more or less.

Because he wants you to spend time with him.

It makes (the reader) at least watch him fight if she's not going to fight him.

I think Lowkey wants to show her how strong he is because well, Ego. but it is also a way to measure the strength of (reader) by her reactions. And intimation

although I doubt this (reader) will be intimidated.

He is definitely the first to suggest eliminating (reader's) entire family if she has one left :)

He's not really a fan of (reader) calling him a brother like Mephisto, but he demands the respect of an older brother and at some point he won't let (reader) walk all over him.

Mephisto and him argue about whether it's a good idea to let him (reader) fight him or not, precisely because Mephisto doesn't want him to get hurt.

and Amaimon WANTS to understand what made him become so attached to her. Maybe by fighting he will understand.

NOW, THE MAIN COURSE.

LUCIFER

(reader) at first would only know him from certain mentions of Amaimon that came to nothing, but when the Illuminati's declaration of war occurs or in any case something related to section 13, she understands everything...

There's a small chance that Shima told the Illuminati about (reader) seeing how "close" she was to Mephisto, which would make Lucifer interested.

Why are his brothers so interested in a completely human student who isn't even related to them?

(reader: same man, same)

So naturally he makes them investigate (reader) to understand why out of nowhere his brothers seem so attached to a simple human.

Who knows, maybe it will serve the Illuminati in some way.

(ignoring the hypothetical case of being a descendant of ShiemiHaza) when Lucifer does not find anything really relevant in his search, he is more doubtful than before, but he reasons, perhaps the human has some kind of ritual that only Mephisto knows about.

There HAS to be something that makes his brother like this.

For the same reason, if Lucifer tries to ask Mephisto directly, he becomes very defensive, telling him to stay away from the students and especially from (the reader).

which only gives him more motivation to want to know more about her.

so 1- seeing that she really doesn't want to be with Mephisto and Amaimon orders Shima to recruit her or 2- (more likely) he directly kidnaps her during the declaration of war on the true cross :)

Be that as it may, (reader) ends up on the Illuminati ship more deranged than ever, and well, it makes sense, now they not only harass her, chase her and pull her from one place to another, but they kidnap her!

Even if Lucifer maintains manners and courtesy, as soon as (the reader) realizes that he is a demon, he becomes wild and tries to get out by all possible means, including jumping off the ship!

Fortunately, Homare constantly watches her and, to his relief, she is not very talkative.

But Lucifer is still quite confused. If this human has absolutely nothing special then why is he important?

although he understands a little better when Mephisto demands that he return his "sister"

Ah, so that was it. family ties.

He is the quickest to accept that (reader) is something like a new brother, so as soon as he finds out this new information, he goes to (reader) and demands to know EVERYTHING about her.

likes, dislikes, what her life was like, her abilities, her weaknesses, whatever, his most obsessive side comes to light.

and (reader) is so confused that she barely answers 1/4 of the questions.

Now, Lucifer is like combining Mephisto and Amaimon.

He is very protective, but he is not on top of (reader) all day (at least not the same one, Homare is usually the one who watches the reader)

He wants (reader) to treat him like an older brother and be referred to as such, but he doesn't force her.

uses a similar approach as with Yukio. He slowly attracts her so that she gets used to HIM.

but it doesn't mean it's not bad.

If (reader) still has a family, he will use them as a constant threat against (reader) to improve her attitude and behavior, he is not above killing them if he feels particularly jealous.

Although I think he would kill (reader)'s sibilings if she had them. After all, she already has him and his brothers, humans could never be equal.

He doesn't spend as much time with (reader) as the other two, but he makes up for it with PRETTY expensive gifts and things he knows she likes (from stalking her).

I think he would only return (reader) if a kind of agreement is reached with Mephisto, in which they both share (reader) and Amaimon goes with her when she is with both of them, that way Mephisto can ensure that Lucifer returns (reader) (reader) and vice versa.

I know this was about their relationship as brothers with (reader) but it reminds me a lot of divorced parents who share custody of their children... although of course, these parents are crazy.

going straight all together, it's not as bad as one would think.

Mephisto is the biggest pain in the ass, that's for sure. He is VERY POSSESSIVE of (reader) to an almost ridiculous point.

He likes to put clothes similar to him, it's a way of "showing dominance" and he likes to think that this way they seem more like a family.

Being with him prepare yourself for a lot of unwanted physical contact and to spend HOURS watching your former classmates suffer from his tricks and be left on the sidelines because you can no longer even carry a weapon...

INFANTILIZATION AT MAXIMUM POWER, he loves to pamper (the reader) and act as if she were a little girl, either because it amuses him to see her angry or because for someone who is thousands of years old like him, she IS indeed a baby.

he reacts VERY badly to rules being broken, if (reader) wants to save herself from punishment (most likely having broken bones, even if he speeds up time so it's not THAT bad, it's horrible) she should go to Amaimon.

He's the best, I already said it.

more than anything because he "understands" better the situation of stress under the thumb of his older brother and now he can understand affection a little better, even if it is still toxic.

but don't be fooled.

If he sees the slightest possibility that (reader) is going to leave him, then he will tell Mephisto or Lucifer to ruin any plan, that's how he is.

apart from the fact that he follows (reader) s everywhere to "inform" Mephisto and Lucifer of his well-being. and it is impossible to lose him, he has a connection with the entire earth and a great ability to find what he wants. Do not even try.

although as long as you give him some affection and treats, he's actually quite manageable, not clingy or overly jealous, just very aggressive and protective.

(another who would want to kill the reader's brothers when seeing them as a threat to their relationship).

and Lucifer...he's a mix.

he's not AS possessive as Mephisto, but he definitely wants everyone to know that (reader) is HIS sister.

He has great respect for the rules and he wants them to be followed, but when it is (the reader) who breaks them, he is much more lenient.

Be careful, I don't want to say that he is exempt from horrible punishments, if (reader) exceeds a limit of errors, then he will not be saved from one.

but Lucifer goes more for the Psychological side of things.

It makes (reader) believe that she is in control of the situation, a situation where she has no real advantage.

In this way he gains her favor but causes him to fall into his trap.

because HE is the one who is in control of everything. If (reader) goes far, it is because he allows it.

very protective, more than Mephisto, if it were up to him she wouldn't leave the Illuminati base, but at the same time he gives (reader) much more autonomy than Pheles.

It's very difficult to come to terms with him, but at least you can use his own sense of the rules against him :D

I think that the one most likely to break (reader) would be Mephisto, followed by Lucifer, these two would undoubtedly do it on purpose so that (reader) would stop trying to escape. Amaimon would only do it by accident due to his lack of knowledge of the human mind.

If (reader) develops Stockholm syndrome, Mephisto is throwing a fucking party! even LUCIFER would be happy (reader) has returned to her senses! and Amaimon would be happy but he would definitely miss the anger.

In short, it's chaos, but it balances out in certain curious ways so you get a little bit of each world.

Overall, it's a VERY fucked up yandere trio to be with, but look on the bright side! you will never be alone...

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

thanks for the request ❤️

ahhhh I loved writing this but I feel like some parts are messy?😭 or maybe because it's my longest fic so far?? I hope you like it and I'm sorry if it's too loaded!

#headcanons #fem reader #blue exorcist #blue exorcist spoilers #blue exorcist mephisto #blue exorcist lucifer #blue exorcist amaimon #yandere blue exorcist lucifer #yandere mephisto pheles #yandere amaimon #yandere platonic #platonic reader #platonic yandere #ao no exorcist #ao no exorcist lucifer #ao no exorcist x reader #ao no exorcist mephisto #ao no exorcist amaimon #blue exorcist x reader

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blueiscoool · 11 months

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Bronze Age Women’s Jewelry Hoard Discovered in a Swiss Carrot Field

A set of Bronze Age women’s jewelry was discovered by archaeologists in Güttingen, Thurgau canton, northeastern Switzerland, in a freshly plowed carrot field.

The set, which dates to around 1,500 B.C., includes a necklace made of bronze spiked discs, two spiral finger rings, more than one hundred pinhead-sized amber beads, and spirals made of bronze and gold wire. A rock crystal, a beaver tooth, a perforated bear tooth, a bronze arrowhead, a few lumps of polished iron ore, a small ammonite, and a fossilized shark tooth were among the more unusual items discovered with these opulent items.

An amateur archaeologist named Franz Zahn discovered the treasure for the first time in August of this year. After the carrots were harvested, he was traipsing through the field when he noticed some bronze discs in the disturbed ground. Zahn, an enthusiastic metal detectorist who has found a number of Iron and Bronze Age artifacts in the Güttingen region, recognized the artifacts’ archaeological importance right away and notified the Thurgau Office of Archaeology.

With the farmer’s permission, the team from the Office of Archeology arrived the next day and quickly realized that only block recovery, that is, the removal and transfer of a larger area of earth of around 50x50x50 cm with the not yet visible finds to the laboratory. At the same time, the small excavation made it clear: There was no evidence of a grave. The jewels were probably buried in an organic container or sack.

The soil block was transported to the Frauenfeld conservation laboratory for excavation. Throughout the process, each discovery layer was meticulously documented. A similar find had already been discovered near Etzwilen two years ago.

These are typical “costume jewelry” from the Bronze Age, more precisely the Middle Bronze Age around 1500 BC. In total, 14 bronze discs were discovered. Spiked discs get their name from the round pointed nub in the center, which is surrounded by three concentric circles. Originally, each of the holes on the discs would have been used to thread a string or a leather strap, with spirals threaded in between them to act as spacers. On the site, there were eight larger gold wire spirals and eleven bronze wire spirals.

As finds from graves show, women wore necklaces with these eye-catching discs, with spirals strung between them as spacers. Eleven of these spirals were found in Güttingen. In addition, eight slightly larger spirals made of fine gold wire appeared, which weigh a total of over 21 grams. More than 100 amber beads and two finger rings with double spirals complete the ensemble.

Was there a jewelry box hidden here? Were the bear tooth, the rock crystal and the selected fossils and stones a collection of curiosities or souvenirs from a visit to Klettgau? Or is there even more to it? Objects of this type may have been considered to have a special, protective or healing effect and may have been worn as a kind of amulet.

The set is scheduled to go on display at the Frauenfeld Museum of Archeology next year.

By Leman Altuntaş.

#Bronze Age Women’s Jewelry Hoard Discovered in a Swiss Carrot Field #jewelry #ancient jewelry #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #bronze age #bronze age history

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jades-typurriter · 5 months

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Cache Clearing

A piece I did in a bit of a frenzy after working with (you guessed it) Bowsiosaurus on the design for a new OC: meet Posie!! The thought process here was literally, like, no sooner than we decided on "make a Renamon" i was like "hey what if she ate a bunch of data", so, I hope you enjoy it as much as she seemed to =^w^=

CW: Weight gain, tummy/breast expansion, stern office woman is so full from Information yum

A tall, stately fox moved down the drab, linoleum-and-drop-tile maintenance corridor with the same grace, the same level and unerring gait, that one of her four-legged, flesh-and-bone counterparts might display while stalking prey through the underbrush. Though her feet ended in points, modeled as a smooth taper from her knee to a single vertex apiece, the clack of high heels echoed down the empty hallway with each step. Her purpose was singular, and her focus undivided.

She was a Renamon who had adapted to a digital landscape that was as predictable as it was unforgiving; while her predecessors were more suited to the wild west of the adolescent internet, all the precision and discipline that they dedicated to roughhousing instead allowed her to operate within the razor-thin margins of error of the corporate world. She kept things running, and that was exactly what she made her way to the server room to do now.

She waved a paw over the electronic lock on the door, an uncannily smooth, mechanical motion, made with the other paw primly held behind her ramrod-straight back. It was a far cry from the jerky, stiff displays one might expect from a physical construct, though the knob turned under her touch as though she was solid as steel. As it swung closed behind her, she approached the subject of her attention for her next task: server rack B-0, a cabinet of solid-state drives stacked even higher than she was, each loaded to the brim with trade secrets, proprietary information, logs of confidential exchanges, schematics, financial records. All of it was outdated. She had been sent by the management to ensure that it was properly deleted.

Her lip curled into a sneer at the thought. Data disposal was so… undignified. It was beneath a woman of her stature. She had thoroughly demonstrated her particular capabilities: the multitasking necessary direct intra-system traffic in real time, reducing latency; her knack for optimizing data for the most efficient storage; she had even taken the initiative to create financial projections from the figures under her care. And still they expected her to perform a task so crude that any program picked up on a shovelware site could handle it without complication! She huffed, her eyes narrowed into her typical glare, as though she wished she could melt the damned server with the infrared beams she would otherwise use to communicate with it.

Nonetheless, there was no use putting it off any longer. The 2.6 seconds she had spent ruminating could have been better spent elsewhere, and she would be remiss to waste even more time. She was the Renamon assigned to maintaining the integrity of the company’s data center, and she would not shirk that duty, no matter how uncouth it was. She unlatched the wire-mesh cabinet door, reached into the rack, and removed the first drive in the array with a soft k-chk.

Closing her eyes and bracing herself with a deep breath, she brought the disk to her snout, opened her mouth, and moved as though to take a bite out of it. Her pointed, polygonal teeth passed harmlessly through the metal, phasing as she could through any of the other surfaces in the building (though she made a point of logging her activities by using her credentials at doors, like any other employee). The data on the two plates within, however, were far from unscathed—bits parted like the muscle fibers in a succulent cut of steak, zeroed out as she pulled the drive from between her lips, swallowing the information once contained within.

She let out an almost-gasp—Pahhh!—like she was trying not to gag. It wasn’t that the data were unpalatable. Far from it; she could, begrudgingly, understand why her wild cousins were so apt to chew through any unsecured files they could get their paws on. It was the task itself that was distasteful: this was only the first bite of the first drive in the entire rack! She resented that her superiors seemed to think of her as a bottomless recycle bin. Besides, work of this nature came up rather infrequently. Reacclimating herself to the sensation of eating was always a touch uncomfortable.

She powered through regardless, knowing the feeling would settle as she got further underway. She brought the drive back up to her face, taking another bite further into the plate, as though she was gnawing off segments of a particularly thick chocolate bar; with her other paw, she disengaged another drive from the rack. She nibbled off the last morsel of data from the first drive and brought the second immediately to her maw; it was… more efficient to do it that way. As fast as possible. The sooner she could get all these units formatted, the better, of course.

Replacing the first, now-empty drive, she replaced it in its slot and reached for a third as she chewed on the second. On and on she went, paws working in perfect unison to maintain an unbroken chain of drives to deplete; she might have compared herself to a juggler if her cheeks weren’t already burning from the indignity. Electrons slid down her tongue—her mouth was watering more than she cared to acknowledge—and down the back of her throat. Bite. Swallow. Bite. Swallow. Replace. Switch. Bite. Swallow. Bite.

Her pace only increased as she continued. Of course it would. A computer performs better after it’s had time to warm up, after all. And, of course, she simply wanted this to be done and over with as quickly as possible. It was a mercy that she didn’t need to pay any mind to her volume controls, as far away from any other personnel as the data center was. Not that she was paying attention anyway, fully-focused on completing her task as she was. Nobody—not even herself—would notice the muffled mmphs and nnffs she made as she pressed on.

All the data on the disks had to go somewhere, and it was at this point in the process that that tended to become apparent. Beneath the fur on her chest, meticulously brushed and fastidiously fluffed, her breasts became gradually more prominent. At first, the tuft was enough to mostly obscure them—after all, so what if she seemed slightly fluffier that day?—but was soon outpaced. Electrical charges by the millions, now unmoored from their tidy array inside the drives, now sloshed into her, taking up more and more of her own storage space. In short order, the fluff was scarcely enough to cover just her cleavage.

One third of the way through the server rack, now. Still, her pace only increased, one drive in each paw.

Her thighs were already rather prodigious. They were the majority of her curves, under normal circumstances, and she took some pride in the matronly figure that she cut as a result. Now, they pressed closer and closer together beneath the skirt of fur that she sported, the conical abstractions of her lower extremities widening bite by bite (and byte by byte). They pressed further and further outward, straining the “garment” itself, pushing the hem further and further up along her legs; the circular patterns on her hips, reminiscent of loading symbols, became distorted, stretched. She would have thought it was a crude change, not unlike resizing an image file with improper scaling—if she were capable of focusing on anything other than the gigabytes upon gigabytes she was so doggedly downloading.

Well over halfway now. She was shoving storage into her maw two at a time, with both paws. If she was able to hold more drives at a time, she would have; as a matter of fact, it didn’t stop her from trying.

The largest component of her directory—her midsection—naturally took the brunt of the new load. Slowly, the soft, icy-blue fur of her tummy billowed out, first simply swelling as her stomach filled, then folding onto itself, rolls smushing down on each other under their newfound, still-growing weight. Soon enough, she found herself pressed up against the lower racks of the server, though even in her focused state, she hadn’t realized that she had stepped closer. She hadn’t moved any closer, of course, but she needed to step further back regardless: she found that she was beginning to struggle to bend over, straining against herself to reach the lowest-mounted drives in the array.

Finally, heaving for breath, she extended her paw for another drive and found none remaining that needed to be cleared. She blinked and, once she was more aware of herself, pushed down a sense of disappointment. Instead, she straightened herself (allowing the new mass to settle to a stop after the motion), dusted her skirt, and conjured a good riddance air about herself as she closed the server door once again. She could still find pride in a job well done, even if she was loathe to do the job.

As she stepped out once again into the hallway, ensuring that the door was securely closed—not that there was a single trace remaining of anything sensitive that had been stored there—she folded her hands behind her back and surprised herself with a burp that was most definitely ladylike. One paw flew to her snout as it echoed down the hallway, both in shock and to hide the near-glow of her cheeks. She glanced in either direction: mercifully, still vacant. Her shoulders slumped in relief, one of the rare occasions on which she relaxed her posture. Thankfully, nobody but her would know that she’d had to do one of her dirtier jobs today. She set off back the way she had came, her footsteps now playing at maximum volume—not even a clack anymore as much as a clomp.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it =^w^= If you'd like to see more of my writing, have a look here and here!

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