#the hand that feeds translation

[otomehonyaku]

Diabolik Lovers More,Blood ☽ Chains, breath play and Ruki's moans (Ecstasy 06)

...and Yui is way into it (and so am I. that triumphant little mm~ ♪ fucking kills me dkjkfjfj). @karleksmumskladdkaka has once again reminded me of some of the finest scenes in the franchise _:(´ཀ`」∠):_

[alternativeminiatures]

So here I'm, bringing you another dose of spanish warhammer memes.

Via r/Grimdank

[hanzajesthanza]

(Adam Dudaczyk) The fact that vampires drink blood to get that *meaningful hand-neck gesture* - you made that up? (Andrzej Sapkowski) Yes, I didn't model myself on anyone here, I don't know anyone who wrote before me about the fact that vampires drink blood not to satisfy their hunger, but to satisfy their thirst for… entertainment. Texts: the guys sent me to get blood, I was flying drunk… The fun was great.

as i reread this i couldn't stop thinking of this meme

[into-the-feniverse]

I am still v much in monster mode so idk here’s demon!fen and yet another wolf!wood

Combined photo but also demon fen was heavily inspired by these funky little dudes and I felt required to share that

Her tail makes her seem more like a cow than sheep tho, but it’s fiiiine I like long fuzzy tails 😔

[colorful-bees]

in reference to my tags. to me it’s like empowering to think about a child who was abused by his parental figure rising up and being recognized as something incredible in his own right. like ghetsis handwaved it all like ‘hmph you’re actually just some defective freak i was only manipulating your heart you aren’t worthy of the name harmonia it’s me who’s special i am perfection’ etc only for the implications of the deep lore to say otherwise. n never needed ghetsis to be special and he continues to be special off on his own

Yesss, I see it and I love that way of looking at it. It's this idea that N never needed Ghetsis to be a hero; he could have made it there on his own and that he owes nothing to him. What it took to make it there came from N himself. Like he has the right to the Harmonia name all in his own; it's not something Ghetsis is able to decide he has or doesn't have. I am so very normal about the concept of breaking apart from Ghetsis and being his own person and still being an amazing person at that without him. I am eating this up, this is such a great way to think about the information we have.

I like to think about if N and Ghetsis do in fact share a relation to the old king of Unova because if so, that makes N's usage of the name even more of his to use without Ghetsis' approval. It's rightfully his, whether Ghetsis likes it or not.

There's this distinct feeling in their dynamic that Ghetsis feels like N owes him something, like anything that made N special was all his doing and the fact that he's not being a good little tool and doing what he says is somehow a major slight against him. So the idea of N being this important person separate from Ghetsis is exactly as you said; empowering when their whole relationship is based around Ghetsis viewing N as having zero worth when he doesn't "belong" to him.

[cator99]

I always get detained at da border because PROFUNC never ended but basically I'm like if a targeted individual didn't even care

[fireflywalk]

decided that i want to translate “the hand that feeds” by @rollercoasterwords to latvian and. i forgot how ridiculous the harry potter terms are in latvian. im considering just making up my own cuz this shit is ridonkilous on god. and translating the english names? the ones that werent mentioned in the books so i ACTUALLY have to translate them. jfc.

[tyrantwombat]

There is a lot happening right now, but the authorial decision to relay this to the reader by putting Song Taewon, Han Yoojin, and Sung Hyunjae alone in a room together had to have been The most chaotic way to go about it.

Case and point: Song Taewon heard 'possibility of double suicide' and didn't think twice. Sung Hyunjae is lovingly feeding them personally baked goods while nearly actually vibrating with the desire to absolutely murder both of them. Han Yoojin - the man who walked into this building prepared to blow it up with a bomb as an expression of disgruntlement - is currently the acting voice of reason as he desperately tries to referee this shit with a gun.

Some highlights:

SHJ: I'm still trying to decide if I should kill you.

HYJ: *oh free juice!* Officer Song, sit down please, he said he's still thinking about it.

---

STW&SHJ: *very literary showdown scene, very dramatic**you who are better than I at stripping away the monster and swallowing it whole-* *pst use looting* *pst I got it*

HYJ, in background: *staring into camera like he's on the office are you seeing this shit*

--

HYJ: You know you could die, right?

STW: I'm fine with that.

HYJ: Of course you are.

---

HYJ: WILL YOU BOTH JUST SHUT UP NO ONE IS DYING THIS TIME

---

STW:

STW: why

STW:

STW: why is there a child?

---

HYJ: okay but hear me out...

HYJ: what if you could kill me?

[catilinas]

pinned post 👍 #beeps -> my posts #five consecutive vowels -> queue tag. count the vowels in 'queueing' #epistulaeposting -> translating cicero's letters and then letting his ghost email them to people. (also on tumblr @e-pistulae!)

44 bce is going to be my year

[tteokdoroki]

tw ! smut, mdni, aged up characters, corruption kink, fem!reader.

megumi is so into corruption and he almost hates himself for it.

he likes the shy girls with little to no experience who go all wide eyed and squirmy when they’re told something nasty. he likes the girls who’s brains get a little bit fuzzy when they’re praised for the first time, when calling them a good girl makes their lashes flutter and their skin warm up.

megumi likes the girls who need to be guided through big crowds or held up in tight spaces because they’re a little clumsy and might fall. he has a l dirty little thing for the ones who post pictures with their pouty, glossy lips and pictures the same pigment smeared along his lengthy dick — teaching them how to suck it just right, messing up their angel faces with tears and spit and all sorts. sometimes he likes to be needed by sweet, innocent things who wear their skirts a little too short and adorn those frilly ankle socks that are enough to drive a man like him mad.

maybe it’s a little gross of him, to prey on the weak and the pure — slaughtering them like a lion feasting on a lamb. he can’t help that he likes the way your the lace frills around your ankles socks dangle over his broad shoulders when fucks you deep and slow against your girly sheets, amongst your soft plushies and pillows.

he can’t help but to relish the taste of your drooly lips and the sound of your babyish tears when he hits that special spot along your sticky, wet insides. megumi wants someone to dote on, someone to press into the sheets and ruin for better ( or for worse ). he wants to be the one who teaches these precious little gems like you how to be bad and the perfect little fuck toy all for him.

flashes of guilt often cross his mind, makes his brows crease at the centre of his forehead midway through bending you over the edge of your bed and ploughing your poor pussy until there’s a darkened wet patch staining your sheets. he really shouldn’t be doing this, not to someone as innocent as you. who doesn’t know any better.

but then you cry out his name in warbled gibberish, reaching back for fushiguro’s large, veiny hand because you like being used by this and how he makes your legs tremble and shooting stars strike a path before your very own glossy eyes. you like this just as much as he does. and suddenly, megumi doesn’t care

because he’s found a twisted happiness in the idea of corrupting you so bad that no one else can satisfy the misguided, devious thoughts in your head. so that you’ll seek him out for pleasure and pain, because you know just what he likes and he’s taught you exactly what he wants you to like. <3

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai & recommend elsewhere.

[hiraethwrote]

Nanami is more of a listener than a talker, and would happily listen to you ramble on and on about anything that would pop into your mind. And no matter how little it really concerns him, he’ll always pay attention to when you explain something so enthusiastically — even if it’s a silly internet trend or drama.

Nanami is definitely not the guy to have TikTok, but would on occasion lift his attention from his book when you’re both laying in bed to quietly watch along for a few minutes.

Nanami is not the type of guy to really form any defining opinion on said internet controversies — except the videos of grooms disrespecting their brides at the alter in their vows. When you tell him about the men who only spew vulgar statements to their future wives, you witness Nanami get incredibly angry, going on a long and serious tangent about how these boys are immature and have no business getting married at all.

Nanami is the type of guy who would spontaneously pull you out of the chair in the calm hours of the evening to slow dance with you around the living room. Sometimes he’d put on some calm and beautiful melodies to play in the background, but sometimes he would just slow waltz without the music, casual chatter filling the void instead.

Nanami is the type of guy who’d pull your feet in his lap to massage them after a long day, without you asking for it.

Nanami is the type of guy who looooves to cook for you, and he does it as often as he possibly can. And when he does, he loves to feed you small bites during the process for you to taste everything.

Nanami is, of course, a respectable man — meaning he doesn’t engage all that much in pda. But he’ll happily walk beside you with your fingers intertwined with his, or he’ll have a tender hand on the small of your back to guide you when has to let go.

Nanami however, has one physical need and that is kissing the back of your hand, which he will do wherever and whenever. Walking the grocery store; lift your hand to his lips. Meeting up for lunch; lift your hand to his lips. Waiting in line for a restaurant; lift your hand to his lips.

Nanami is the type of guy that would love being a girl’s dad. It would be the highlight of his day to come home from work, only to squeeze into one of her small chairs in her bedroom and would put on the most convincing act of sipping tea from the empty cup, a pretty tiara at the very top of his head.

Nanami is the type of guy who would love planning the wedding along with you. He hates the idea of loading all the responsibility on the bride, because he wants to celebrate your love just as much as you do.

Nanami is the type of guy, who once he falls in love, he’s settled.

©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited

[fleshwizard]

Dragons & Folklore de France

Translation below

The Tarasque dwells in the waters of the Rhone river near the town of Tarascon, where it devours travelers and destroys dikes and dams to flood the Camargue. Saint Martha chained it, and the people of Tarascon killed it.

The ruins of the amphitheaters of Metz were infested by hundreds of snakes. The largest of them, the Graoully, had a venomous breath, a mouth bigger than its body and devoured men. Saint Clement chased it away into the Seille River.

King of serpents, the Basilisk takes many forms throughout history and appears in many tales. One of them takes place at the Gate of Saint-Eloi in Bordeaux, known today for its Big Bell, where a well was occupied by a Basilisk. It petrified with its gaze anyone who went there to fetch water. It was defeated by a man returning from the Egyptian crusade, who petrified the beast with its own gaze using a mirail (mirror).

The Cocatrix is born from a rooster's egg incubated by a toad. The egg has magical properties but must not be broken. People who cross its gaze die immediatly.

Made of wicker and covered in flowers, the Grand Bailla wanders the streets of Reims three days a year and feeds on gold and sweets. It was banished by Archbishop Charles Maurice le Tellier.

The Grand'Goule haunts the marshes of Poitou, the waters of the Clain and the flooded cellars of the abbey of Sainte Croix. It feeds on nuns and casse-museaux (snout-breakers, cakes). Saint Radegonde chased it away with holy water.

In the rivers of the Jura and the Alps there is a group of diverse dragons, the Vouivres. They are generally flying serpents covered in fire and guardians of treasures. Many have for a single eye a gigantic carbuncle with extraordinary powers, desired by those in search of wealth and power.

Hidden in the caves and cliffs of la Pointe du Roux near La Rochelle, the Rô Beast traps and devours travelers in the coastal marshes. It was impaled by seven heroic pagans from the seas.

Mythical dragon of the Basque Country, Herensuge gave birth to the Sun and the Moon, swallowed all of Creation in ten days then regurgitated it in flames. Now asleep in the mountains, it sucks up flocks and shepherds in his sleep. When it wakes up, it will destroy the world in flames and blood. (illustration)

Durandal is the mythical sword that Charlemagne gave to the knight Roland. Some claim that it was inherited from Hector, the warrior of the Trojan War. At war with the Saracens in the Pyrenées, Roland wanted to break the sword so that it would not fall into the hands of the enemy but Durandal split the mountain. So he threw the sword, which went to stick miles away, in the rock of the town of Rocamadour.

The belief in the Tooth Fairy is widespread in several countries in Europe, and is sometimes amalgamated with La Petite Souris (little mouse). It exchanges baby teeth for money. No one knows what it does with all these teeth.

The Camecruse is a bogeyman that haunts the moors and marshes of Gascony. It is agile, can jump and hide in the night to better devour lost children. No one knows exactly how it feeds.

The caves under the hill of the town of Hastingues are home to Lou Carcolh, a monstrous snail, long, slimy and hairy. Its shell is as big as a house. With the help of its tentacles, it grips people to devour them.

The Questing Beast is hunted by kings and heroes in Arthurian legends. It symbolizes evil, incest, violence and chaos, and takes it name from the loud noises that come out of its stomach, similar to the barking of dozens of dogs.

The fairy Mélusine, cursed princess of Albania, was condemned to change into a snake below the waist every Saturday. She married Raymondin de Lusignan with whom they had 10 prodigious children. But Raymondin broke his promise never to see Mélusine on Saturday : he surprised her in her monstrous form, and she left her family forever.

[evilasiangenius]

If your favorite writer has a wip that you love but is stalled or unfinished...

If your favorite artist has deleted works...

Try leaving reviews. Or emailing the creator. Or contacting them on Tumblr or whatever.

Focus on how you enjoyed their work and how you'd like to see it continued. Tell them what you loved about their work.

You'd be surprised, you could accidentally revive a work that has languished or the creator might just give you a sketch of the rest of the work, or hey, if you're really really lucky, you'll make a new friend.

The AI will never be able to replace your favorite authors, but if you keep feeding it, it might.

oh I wasn’t aware it was feeding the ai. I’ve inserted hundreds of fics into chatgpt for their continuation or for a different plot within the same context just for fun and out of curiosity… but I’ve never posted any of them…

Indeed, anything that is given to AI it can use later to draw from. That's why it doesn't matter if you post them or not as it has now access to those writers' texts without their permission.

~Mod L

[gladiatorcunt]

- A ROTTEN TREE BEARS ROTTEN FRUIT | I.

god loves you, but not enough to save you

cw: kinktober prompt (whipping/flogging), blasphemy, inaccurate religious practices, lyrical sadomasochism (more so sadism on his part), erotic religious imagery and references, this dynamic is so weird, implied (as in in my mind) bi reader and charlie, plus sized reader, reader’s chest referred to as ‘breasts’ & ‘tits’ and their crotch referred to as a ‘hole’ but they do have a seperate one other than their ass, pregnancy fantasy, vomit mention, don’t know shit about the show fuck you ryan, blood kink, interchangeable ‘charlie’ & ‘mayhew’ based on pov

do not translate, repost, or feed this work to ai |

kinktober 2024

“Shh, let me clean you up, Father.” You smile, so softly, he could snap your neck if he squeezed hard enough.

You run your nails over his back, trimmed to an appropriate length. Father Mayhew sighs the way Adam might’ve when Eve’s walls clenched around him, God never being more important than this bliss. You’re so devoted, so devout in your worship but he’s beginning to think that you cry out to a different God than he does. If you even believe in an invisible one anymore when you have a savior in the flesh.

“Thank you, dear. That’d be great.” The pulls are pulled from his lips like rotund wooden beads, as if he has no choice but to endure the stretch as they exit his body one by one.

You shuffle off the bed and kneel behind him, stroking your fingertips down his back like he’s a marble statue you just can’t help but reach out and touch. The opposite of Delilah cutting Samson’s hair, you only want to imbue him with your pure love from the inside out. Spooning milk and honey over the tender welts.

His eyelids crinkle as you kiss the nape of his neck, blotting your lips with rouge. There is no inch of his back left without, and when you arrive at the bigger gashes you lavish the cut with your tongue. Drinking his life away and cleaning him up like a good little whore, servicing the man becomes the only thing of importance to you. You dip the tip of your tongue in the recess of the deeper wounds, and caress his tensing abs from behind when he grits his teeth and traps a curse behind them. You only kitten lick him, but often he wishes you would get real dirty with it, caressing your tongue over his muscles in broad and messy swipes.

His scars from previous lashings glint in the low light of the candles surrounding you. You give them their just desserts of course, grateful pecks of attention and acknowledgement. Soothing his pain, that is the only excuse you have to encroach on the verge of breaking your vows. Father Mayhew gives you a purpose and stops your bleating with a heavy hand if you forget your place. Stern hand to raw and stinging flesh.

Sometimes there is no pillow when you kneel behind him.

The next step is that you turn around and face the wall after picking up the cattail whip off the bed and returning it to its rightful owner. You’ve already discarded your habit, no tunic, coif, or veil left on your person. They’re folded neatly beside you, only your rosary nestled in the embrace of your heaving breasts. Your peaks harden in the stuffy humid air, all the oxygen in the world confined to this small room.

He saddles up behind you, his sweaty chest so close to the flesh and contours of your back. Father Charlie breathes you in, taking whiffs of your debauched scent in between silent prayers. He never allows himself to be as forward as you are, his thread of control over his desire has not snapped yet. There are boundaries he can push, but lines he can never cross.

“Good lamb, God recognizes your penance and forgives your soul.” He whispers, dragging the strips of leather down your back until goosebumps rise to the surface.

When you least expect it, he strikes. You muffle a shout into the wall and Father Charlie’s cock jumps under his towel. Briefly he imagines slamming into your tempting body dry, with no preparation, making you sure you feel as much pain as possible. The way you’d wince with every step around the church, the begging in your puppy dog eyes when you’d take communion. How he could hold it above your head like a bone in the shape of a fractured cross, dangling just out of reach of your gorgeous mouth.

The devil gives him dreams of fucking your throat until you’re vomiting and hoarse.

Every droplet of bed peeking out from the cracks of your skin to say hello nourishes him. He shushes you when you’re unable to hold back your sounds, cooing when he notices you humping the air after the fifteenth hit. You just can’t help yourself, nerdy by nature and nurture.

You start soaking the pillow beneath you, imagining what he must look like. A man and his broad hulking body curling around you as he hurts you. Your hole suddenly feels so empty, you have a night of riding your pillow ahead of you, you just want to be good for him in all the ways you’re supposed to be.

As you let a demon of sex control your body, he spies a flash of a white lacy thong nestled between your plump ass cheeks. He knows that if you had also worn a towel, he would’ve hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it off. You don’t get to hide any part of yourself from your Father. And he knows he will have to give himself another lashing for those thoughts alone. Even the secret wedding he plans as he strokes his angry red cock, always edging himself, he’s afraid of what would happen if he lets go. How loud the iron gates would be when they creak open. Like the way he wants to spread your ass open and toy with the hidden puckered hole.

His words are in his actions, reopening your old wounds and bringing the warm leather across your back one last time, he hopes your blood soaks through the material. Staining it, the way you have already stained his heart. Father Charlie grins despite himself when you slump against the wall, sliding his bible-roughened hands over your love handles and sticks his pecs to your shoulders.

“You did lovely, today. The Lord thanks you, and I’m so proud of you, you know that?” His thick fingers brush along the bottoms of your tits, never going higher.

He wants to slap them, wrap the beads of your rosary around them until the flesh bulges, painting your nipples in a mix of both of your blood. Marking your souls irreversibly. Marriage of the spirit, a ritualistic wedding in the eyes of the beholder. You shiver like a mouse in front of a snake, and beads of precum fall from his cockhead.

Did Saint Teresa have these feelings when she had the vision of an angel piercing her heart with their golden spear? Did Saint Sebastian when he was pierced by those arrows under the order of the Emperor? Did David when he wrenched Goliath’s head back by his hair and bested him into humiliation? Did it compare to the covenant he formed with Jonathan?

He kisses your glittering scars in thanks and washes your blood away with his lips and tongue too. But unlike any other day in which you’ve done this, he stands up with a grunt and pulls you up with him. Father Mayhew falls backwards onto his bed and so you follow dutifully, and because the hold he has on your wrist is strong to the point of bruising. You lay your head over his heart and pant into his skin as he teases your plush thigh, tracing crosses into the chubby expanse of skin.

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” He cajoles, walking on that burning tightrope with you.

He wonders if your cunt would be just as chubby, if you’ve ever thought about humping the organ bench, riper than the forbidden fruit, and he mentally catalogs an extra long session of repentance. To be fresh and clean again. Father Charlie will go through his sermons with his lighthearted tone and charming personality, desperate to hide that he’s thinking of plunging his tongue in your asshole. Sipping and slurping up your musk like it’s the only holy water he needs to live. Or entice you into eating his ass, you would love being able to serve him properly, no doubt.

To nourish you with his fragments, his vertebrae and viscera. The body and the blood. The teeth and the testicles.

He’ll sit in quiet contemplation in front of the pulpit, pouring wine over your body in his mind. Following the red trail with his tongue as it trickles down the valley of your chest and dips in and out the folds of your belly. He’ll leisurely open his mouth on a silent moan at the top of your mound, the hairs like yellowing blades of glades against his philtrum, in a perfect paradise there’d be blood there too. His own personal, pervertedly literal, red sea.

You’d look so beautiful, swollen and fat with a child growing in your womb. A shame that can never happen, but a blessing that no heretic of a man could snatch you up and take you away from him. Your flock is here, and the heavy crook of his staff is all you need to guide you back home when you go astray. Trapped in his thighs, molded by his hands, punctured into line with his cock.

[kruegerspillow]

simon riley who just needs to be understood. that's all. one whole jar of pity wouldn't do it, he needs you to acknowledge him. and, when you do, he'll surrender himself faster than he should.

The rain pours down heavily against the roof, the sound of pitter-patters humming throughout your house.

It had been weeks ever since Simon's leave and the sudden change hits you harder than a damn truck. It's just going to be a few weeks, he wrote down in the letter. But, you never really believed him, no. Fuck, you know he'd do anything (that includes lying) just for you to be at ease.

Though, the bed felt colder than before. Your place felt even more... tense, with the feeling of unease running through your body and the unusual, eerie silence. His job wasn't an easy one, and with the fact that his life is on the line, it made it worse.

Your heartbeat quickened as you looked down at your phone, scrolling through the messages and pictures Simon had sent the other day. You don't understand how soldiers could be so composed in the middle of the battlefield, including Simon himself. You'd be damned if you heard a single gunshot ringing across you.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of a car engine knocked you out of your trance. Your head perked up, a feeling of hope sparking up in your weary heart. Could it be him? You thought to yourself. He's earlier than usual.

You placed your phone on the table, gaze locking onto the front door as you leaned back against the armrest of the couch, a pillow pressed against your back. The sound of the engine eventually came to a stop, then—

Click.

There he was. Simon motherfuckin' Riley.

He took off his boots and placed them aside as soon as he met your gaze. The smell of rain and dirt lingered around him, but he didn't care anymore. Not when the love of his life is right in front of him, waiting patiently to be placed into his embrace. But, he's fuckin' exhausted, and he can't help but let the feeling of fatigue take over his body.

He closed the door behind him, walking towards you with a look of deep longing and care. His bags were left right beside the front door. Your eyes travelled over his figure, searching for any new scars or wounds.

"Bloody 'ell, I missed ya s'much." He murmured, his voice raspy and carried a handful of emotions.

Before you knew it, he plopped down onto you, head resting against your plump thighs, earning an amused gasp from you. His arms softly wrapped around your waist, slipping underneath your shirt before caressing your bare skin. You sighed in content, relaxing beneath him before your hands made their way to his hair, running your fingers through his hair.

"Welcome home, Simon." You greeted him, your voice filled with warmth and relief.

He grunted in response, burying his face between your thigh, causing you to nearly whimper in response. But you knew he ran out of the energy, having finished a tiring deployment. Your gaze softened at the sight before you. Sometimes, even the strongest souls get exhausted.

"Want me to make tea for you, love?" You softly whispered into his ear.

He shook his head, wanting to hold you just for a while (that's a lie. He'd go through the whole month burying his face into you) and you understood, staying silent as you embraced him. You let him do his thing and fuck he was turned on by that mere fact. But, for now, lust was long forgotten, buried away by the need of your comfort and warmth.

Your hands gently massaged his tense shoulder, feeling the way his muscles relaxed under your touch. Slowly, his vision fades into nothingness, for your touch has provided comfort even to the soul of the corrupt. Surrendering himself into sleep had never felt so... easy.

And, soon, he'll show you just how lucky he is to have you.

kruegerspillow © 2024 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[sbcdh]

“Oh gosh the fire. Yes it was truly a tragedy. You know, HECA79 was the prototype for the new regulation model. Well, haha, new for the time. It was the seventies after all. It really is fascinating. She was the first one we put in the class N tanks. Fascinating technology for the time, clever as the dickens. You see, the insides of the tank were to be lined with a thin layer of magnetically laminated gold calcite particles that formed a reflective lattice under electrical stimulation. A gold plated one-way mirror for brainwaves! I’m sure you understand, it was the best we could do for 1983-”

“So you subscribe to the, uh, equipment malfunction theory?”

“Huh? Oh! Oh. Terribly sorry. Equipment malfunction? As I recall, it functioned quite well.”

“So you believe the fire was caused by something else?”

“The fire? Oh. Well, I’m not quite sure. I don’t know the exact specifications, but if I recall correctly, there were all sorts of firebreaks and engineers and junior-engineers stationed all around –all helmeted, mind you– to make sure that sort of thing never happened.”

“And yet.”

“And yet. Indeed…Well, between you and me, I think It was one of the junior engineers.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. We were a bit of a maverick bunch back then. Reagan gave us all that research money, but, well, its always a bit different when the wheels hit the pavement haha. Oh. Oh. I hope I haven’t gotten anyone in trouble. They were nice lads all. Well, some of them were Germans, but nice lads.”

“We are more interested in your observations of HECA79. I was told you were able to directly observe her during the incident. If there is anything you can tell us, please, speak loudly enough for the tape to hear.”

“Oh! Oh gosh. You know, I completely forgot we were being taped haha! And you caught all of my rambling! Well, I think I can help you out. Oh yes. Now. You must understand. A good half of this is going to be embellished. You know how memories go, you always get more heroic looking back as time goes on haha. But yes, I think I can help you out. Ah, where should I start?”

“What was the first thing out of the ordinary that you noticed?”

“Her lips were moving.”

“Is that out of the ordinary?”

“By gosh for a plutophant yes! At full emmanation, there is no part of them that is not the market! Every neuron soaked in hypno-amphetamine rocket fuel! Most of them –if you’ll pardon my language sir– shit their tanks the moment their Id touches the sub-finantial background grid! What do you think half those tubes are for! A plutophant in full emmanation doesn’t have a braincell to spare to keep their sphincters closed, much less perform something as complex as speech!”

“I see. Could you make out what the asset was saying?”

“Oh no. No, I’m afraid not. I can’t read lips. Back in those days, they were hooked up to a helmet, and then the helmet read the delta-wave patterns, and then printed that on magnetic tape. That way, we could feed the tape to some lob-, ah translators, and have them interpret the feed.”

“When did her lips start to move? What time of day?”

“Funny thing, almost exactly at 12:03. I should have been off at lunch, but I was procrastinating. I had a crossword I was right on the edge of solving. It was one of those big words that goes all the way across the page. TIMEPIECE. I remember that clear as day.”

“Interesting. I have here that equipment registered the fire almost exactly seven minutes later.”

“Oh dear. Do you understand what that means sir?”

“No, please, enlighten me.”

“Is that a schematic of the N class tank you have there? Hand it over. Thank you sir. So. Back in 1983, we didn’t have any of the fancy digital equipment we have now. Well, we did, but not to the same degree. Most of our equipment was good old analogue. You see this module here? These weren’t part of our system. No, we were waiting on the replacements to show up.”

“And, what is that part?” 

“Think of it like the uh, ah yes, the carburetor in a car. It keeps everything balanced. Keeps the subjects metabolism steady so they don’t chew through the drugs too fast, keeps the tank at the ideal temperature for chemical reactions, without boiling the subject like a lobster haha. But the key is, it was completely mechanical. But at the end of the day, it's just a bunch of tubes full of fluid that move based on pressure differentials.”

“Which means?”

“Well, heat would throw it off.”

“Here, I think we have a schematic. Now, doctor, this is very important. I need you to explain to me exactly how the machine malfunctioned, and how it would affect HECA79.”

“Well technically, it wasn’t malfunctioning at all. It was functioning correctly, just under less-than-ideal circumstances. Oh, haha. Yes, haha, but thats not what you’re looking for haha. Yes. Well. What side did the fire hit it from? Do you know?”

“This one here.”

“Fascinating. Well. Then, the apparatus would have uh, hm. Oh dear.”

“Doctor.”

“It would have spiked the hypnostimulant feed, while introducing impurities.”

“Which means?”

“I- I haven’t the slightest idea. It would've been deadly, I can assure you that. But its as if…Its as if you had a car, coasting in neutral, downhill at terminal velocity, and then you switched gears to high gear, and then slammed the gas while spraying rocket fuel into the intake.”

“Could we ask you to write a full report on your speculation?”

“Frankly sir, I am as intrigued as you are. You would have to hold my wrists to keep me from writing on this. Fascinating.”

ENCLOSED: FINAL READOUT OF HECA79

"BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD"[Phrase repeats over twenty thousand times.]