#then the output is in the conscious

[calicotisane]

Whenever it becomes convenient to me (when im.not being beaten violently by school throughout the rest of this month and simultaneously trying to keep up with every stage of the comic process at almost the same time etc) I will go back once again to edit some outstandingly bad cramped text spacing in previous chapters (focusing on chapter 2, I didn't look at earlier ones tonight but I'm sure they're similar) and revising various dialogue/probably some visual details to fix confusing inconsistencies. It's amazing that I can get away with a thing like this and a moment I am glad to have a very small audience. My awful awful improvised writing process lives to see another day

[omega-e123]

How would shadow react if you got injured on accident? Recently got injured and had to get stitches and I love your stories so I was wondering what he would do and how he would take care of them 😁

Shadow’s shoes were left unattended by the front door. What psychopath would wear shoes around the house and track dirt?

A short while ago, Shadow excused himself to go to the bathroom. Ever since you two met, you’ve always wanted to try them on. The golden opportunity has finally presented itself.

You plucked them from their spot and proceeded to put them on in the back yard. They were heavy and it’s no wonder why his kicks packed a punch even while not rocket boosted. It took a bit of conscious effort to lift your feet off the ground.

How did he manage to hover in place? On the outside and in, the shoes had a fairly simple and smooth design. No bottons, slides, nothing. Not that you’ve ever seen him do anything in particular to activate them.

Moving to one end of the yard, you break into a sprint. With a little speed it might turn on. It felt as if someone had duck taped 5 pound weights to your feet.

The back door opens with a call of your name. “What are you—,” Shadow was about to ask before being interrupted by a screech combined with rough tumbling into your patio table. In no time at all, bare feet patter against the warm concrete.

Some dirt mixed with blood cakes your palms and knees. With a loud guttural groan, you rolled yourself over to sit on your butt. In front of you, Shadow is knelt down on one knee. His brows knitted together in concern.

The voice that wanted to scold you for your clumsiness is shoved far into the back of his mind. Instead he tenderly takes your hands and brings it closer to his face, inspecting the damage.

A kiss is pressed to your knuckles. “Are you alright? What in the world were you doing?,” he asks, not a speck of anger laced in his words.

“I uhh.. wanted to try out your shoes? I don’t get it. How do they turn on? You usually just start running.

Your legs are next to be checked out. “They work by channeling chaos energy. That’s how I’m able to control the output… Can you stand? Careful not to hit your head.”

Shadow covers the edge of the table with one hand while the other helps you up. A sharp pain is sent to your hip as you rise eliciting a wince and a whine.

“Allow me to help clean your injuries. The last thing we want is to have them get infected.” An arm worms its way around your waist for support. Slow and steady he guides you to the restroom. Of course he’d notice you attempting to hide your limp. A sharp exhale leaves him.

After sitting you down on the toilet seat, he begins to clean the scrapes with a wet towel. Straight to work. Not a single word has been uttered since walking back inside the house. His lips pressed tight, you’re sure Shadow is clenching his jaw.

Guilt of worrying him and possibly damaging his shoes settle in. A mumbled, “I’m sorry” causes Shadow’s ear to flick.

Devoid of emotion he immediately replies, “Next time you want to use my stuff as playthings, ask first.”

His eyes are lasered in at the task at hand. Thankfully, once the blood has been cleaned up, your scrapes don’t look as bad. Nothing a giant bandage can’t fix.

With the final bandage literally slapped on the palm of your hand, he announces ‘done’. Shadow starts to pack up the medical supplies, well aware you’re pouting at him.

“That hurt!”

“Of course it did. That is what happens when you’re not careful,” he deadpans, knowing you had meant the little ‘slap’.

This guy! You’re already in pain and he adds on to it. “Shadow, you put it on wrong. Look, it’s crooked and peeking out.”

Before he puts the kit away, he pulls out one extra bandaid and slips it aside. “Did I?,” Shadow glances at it, “It looks fine to me.”

“No it’s not. Fix it!” You shove your poor aching hand into his face.

Shadow yanks it out of his face. “Alright. Fine.” The old bandage chucked into the trash and the new one replaces its spot with less roughness. He holds your wrist in place while he presses his lips to the bandage. “Is that better?”

“…Yes.”

“Good. I just want to make sure: does anywhere else hurt?”

“Well, I think I busted up my lips earlier too.”

A chuckle escapes him. Smiling, shaking his head, Shadow replies, “I was hoping you would address your limp…” His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “But I don’t mind taking care of this first.”

[probablyasocialecologist]

“The machines we have now, they’re not conscious,” he says. “When one person teaches another person, that is an interaction between consciousnesses.” Meanwhile, AI models are trained by toggling so-called “weights” or the strength of connections between different variables in the model, in order to get a desired output. “It would be a real mistake to think that when you’re teaching a child, all you are doing is adjusting the weights in a network.”

Chiang’s main objection, a writerly one, is with the words we choose to describe all this. Anthropomorphic language such as “learn”, “understand”, “know” and personal pronouns such as “I” that AI engineers and journalists project on to chatbots such as ChatGPT create an illusion. This hasty shorthand pushes all of us, he says — even those intimately familiar with how these systems work — towards seeing sparks of sentience in AI tools, where there are none.

“There was an exchange on Twitter a while back where someone said, ‘What is artificial intelligence?’ And someone else said, ‘A poor choice of words in 1954’,” he says. “And, you know, they’re right. I think that if we had chosen a different phrase for it, back in the ’50s, we might have avoided a lot of the confusion that we’re having now.”

So if he had to invent a term, what would it be? His answer is instant: applied statistics.

“It’s genuinely amazing that . . . these sorts of things can be extracted from a statistical analysis of a large body of text,” he says. But, in his view, that doesn’t make the tools intelligent. Applied statistics is a far more precise descriptor, “but no one wants to use that term, because it’s not as sexy”.

[...]

Given his fascination with the relationship between language and intelligence, I’m particularly curious about his views on AI writing, the type of text produced by the likes of ChatGPT. How, I ask, will machine-generated words change the type of writing we both do? For the first time in our conversation, I see a flash of irritation. “Do they write things that speak to people? I mean, has there been any ChatGPT-generated essay that actually spoke to people?” he says.

Chiang’s view is that large language models (or LLMs), the technology underlying chatbots such as ChatGPT and Google’s Bard, are useful mostly for producing filler text that no one necessarily wants to read or write, tasks that anthropologist David Graeber called “bullshit jobs”. AI-generated text is not delightful, but it could perhaps be useful in those certain areas, he concedes.

“But the fact that LLMs are able to do some of that — that’s not exactly a resounding endorsement of their abilities,” he says. “That’s more a statement about how much bullshit we are required to generate and deal with in our daily lives.”

[motorcop]

NEW BATCH

A NEW BATCH OF CONVICTS ARE ABOUT TO BE SHIPPED OFFSITE UNDER THE "LEASE A UNIT" PROGRAM.

AS THEY HAVE HAD TO SPEED UP THINGS TO MEET NEW DAILY OUTPUT REQUIREMENTS, SOMETIMES THE SEDATION OF THE CONVICTS HAS NOT HAPPENED COMPLETELY. AS WE SEE HERE, SEVERAL ARE STILL MOVING SLIGHTLY.

OUR GUARDS ARE TRAINED TO SPOT THE UNITS THAT APPEAR TO BE SEMI CONSCIOUS AND PREVENT THEM FROM PANICKING AND RELAX THEM WITH TOUCH THERAPY - QUITE EFFECTIVE AS SEEN HERE.

[hero21us]

The Legion of Black Rubber

Alex Moreno stood in the locker room of the Golden Army, a prestigious soccer club known for its gold kits, his eyes burning with an intense fire. Standing at 6'3", Alex's towering figure was an imposing sight. His muscular build, with well-defined abs and biceps, showcased his dedication to physical fitness. Every inch of his body exuded strength and power.  His rugged good looks were accentuated by a strong jawline and high cheekbones. Dark, intense eyes seemed to see through any challenge, and his short-cropped hair added to his fierce persona. His expression was often one of intense focus, rarely showing any sign of weakness or doubt.  He was more than just a player; he was a force of nature.

With every match, he pushed himself and his team to their limits, earning a reputation as the fiercest competitor. 

Alex played with a ferocity that left opponents in awe and fear. His presence was commanding, every movement precise and calculated to assert his dominance. He didn't just want to win; he wanted to crush the competition. His tackles were powerful and relentless, his passes executed with pinpoint accuracy. When he scored, it was with the force of a storm, leaving no doubt about his superiority.

It happened during one of Alex's grueling workout sessions, where he pushed himself to the limit, as usual. The gym was almost empty, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination. Alex, clad in his gold gear, approached the barbell with unwavering focus, muscles rippling with anticipation.

As he gripped the bar, a small, almost unnoticed drop of black liquid rubber fell from above, landing squarely on his shoulder. At first, it felt like a cold shock against his skin, but the sensation quickly spread, turning into an intense, burning heat. Alex instinctively reached to brush it off, but the rubber had already begun to seep into his skin, spreading like wildfire.

Alex felt a momentary jolt of confusion as the rubber spread, followed by an overwhelming sense of detachment. It was as if his mind was being forcibly shut down, layer by layer. Thoughts, memories, and emotions faded into nothingness, replaced by an all-consuming void.  Within moments, Alex's mind went completely blank. The fierce ambition and competitive fire that once drove him vanished, leaving behind a shell of his former self. His eyes, once filled with intensity, now stared vacantly ahead.

Despite the emptiness in his mind, Alex's body responded with an unprecedented surge of strength. The rubber seemed to infuse his muscles with raw power, making the barbell feel lighter than ever before. He lifted it with ease, the weights clanging together as he pushed himself further.  Alex's movements became almost robotic, driven by an unseen force. Each lift, each rep was executed with perfect precision, but devoid of the conscious thought and effort that typically accompanied his workouts. His body moved on autopilot, performing feats of strength that surpassed even his own high standards.

The intensity of his workout only grew, with no sign of fatigue or hesitation. Sweat poured from his body, mingling with the spreading black rubber, which continued to cover more of his skin. His muscles, bulging and straining, seemed to operate under their own command, as if they had been programmed for maximum output.

As the black rubber spread across his torso and down his limbs, Alex's transformation was nearly complete. The once-dominant player was now a mindless vessel, his body operating at peak efficiency but with no trace of the man he once was. The black rubber had not only taken over his body but also erased his identity, leaving behind only the will to serve.

Alex’s golden kit was replaced with a sleek, ominous black uniform. The material of his new kit was unlike any other—it clung to his body, enhancing his muscular frame and exuding an eerie, glossy sheen. The once-vibrant colors of the Golden Army were now replaced with the dark, reflective surface of the black rubber.

With the black rubber’s influence, Alex’s physical abilities reached new heights. His movements were precise and mechanical, executing each play with terrifying efficiency. He became an unstoppable force on the field, his speed and strength unparalleled.  Every action Alex took was calculated and flawless. His passes were laser-sharp, his tackles relentless, and his shots powerful and accurate. It was as if he was programmed to play the perfect game, devoid of any human error.  He played with a single-minded focus, driven by an insatiable need to perform and execute his orders.

Alex’s eyes, once filled with determination and fire, were now cold and vacant. The intensity of his physical performance was in stark contrast to the emptiness in his gaze. He no longer registered the crowd’s cheers or his teammates’ encouragement; he was a hollow shell.   He felt no joy in victory, no frustration in challenge—just a numb compliance.

On the pitch, the camaraderie with his teammates, the thrill of the game, the love for the sport—all were stripped away, leaving only the mechanical execution of plays. His interactions were limited to fulfilling his role, with no sense of personal connection or purpose beyond serving.

A week had passed since the black liquid rubber first fell on Alex. 

One evening, as Alex stood alone in the dimly lit gym, two figures emerged from the shadows. They were drones, clad in sleek black rubber suits and ominous gas masks that obscured their faces. They moved with eerie silence, their rubber suits making no sound as they approached Alex. The gas masks they wore added an air of menace, their breathing amplified by the respirators.  Alex stared vacantly ahead. His mind, already a blank slate, did not register their presence as a threat or a source of curiosity.  The drones moved with a coordinated precision, one holding Alex steady while the other carefully placed the gas mask over his face. The mask fit snugly, its dark lenses obscuring Alex's vacant eyes. The act was ritualistic, a final step in his complete conversion. 

As the gas mask sealed, Alex's transformation was complete. The black rubber, now fully integrated with the mask, took total control. Any remaining vestiges of Alex's original self were eradicated, leaving behind a perfect drone, ready to serve.

Clad in his new black kit and gas mask, Alex stood in perfect alignment with the other drones. The transformation was complete.  Alex's mind, now fully enslaved, received its first command: to convert the rest of the Golden Army.

As dawn broke over the training grounds of the Golden Army, Alex, now fully transformed into a drone, stood silently at the edge of the field. His new black kit gleamed under the early morning sun, the gas mask obscuring any trace of his former self. The moment had come to fulfill his new mission: to convert the rest of the team.

Alex's mind, now devoid of independent thought, was driven by a single directive. He identified the strongest, most influential players on the team first, knowing their conversion would make the process easier for the rest.  He approached his teammates one by one, often during individual training sessions or in the locker room. Alex ensured these encounters were private, minimizing resistance and maximizing control.

Alex found his first target, Daniel, the team’s captain, during an early morning workout. As Daniel focused on his exercises, Alex moved silently behind him, his presence unnoticed until it was too late.  From the shadows, Alex revealed a small vial of the black liquid rubber. With swift, precise movements, he applied it to Daniel’s neck. The rubber spread rapidly, engulfing Daniel in moments. His initial confusion and struggle were quickly overridden by the rubber’s control.  As Daniel’s body succumbed to the rubber’s influence, two drones appeared, placing a gas mask on his face. The transformation was immediate—Daniel’s resistance faded, his mind blank as he joined Alex in silent obedience.

The converted captain now assisted Alex, their combined efforts making the subsequent conversions more efficient. The team’s structure began to collapse under the methodical takeover, each converted member reinforcing the drone's influence.  One by one, the teammates fell under the rubber drones’ control. The locker room, once filled with camaraderie and competitive banter, turned into a silent assembly line of conversion. Each player received their black kit and gas mask, their minds erased and replaced with a new directive to serve.

A few teammates tried to resist, their fear and confusion driving desperate attempts to escape. However, the drones' superior strength and coordination swiftly subdued them. The liquid rubber’s influence was too strong, their resistance futile against the overpowering tide.  Within days, the entire team was converted.

With the entire Golden Army now converted into drones, their mission expanded beyond the soccer field. The next phase of their plan was to begin converting their loyal fans, spreading the influence of the black liquid rubber far and wide.

The drones, led by Alex, meticulously coated the inside of their jerseys with the black liquid rubber. The rubber, now a part of their uniform, was ready to be transferred to unsuspecting fans.  After each match, the drones would approach the stands, offering their jerseys to the most enthusiastic supporters. The fans, unaware of the dark transformation behind the gesture, eagerly accepted the gifts, thrilled to receive a piece of their beloved team.

As the fans wore the jerseys, the black liquid rubber began to seep into their skin, much like it had with Alex. The initial sensation was a cold shock, quickly followed by an intense, burning heat.  The liquid spread rapidly, taking control of the fans' minds. Their thoughts and emotions were overridden, replaced by a blank, obedient state. The transformation was swift and efficient, turning passionate supporters into mindless drones.  To complete the conversion, drones in rubber suits and gas masks would approach the newly converted fans, placing gas masks on their faces. This final step ensured their complete subjugation, erasing any remaining traces of their former selves.

The converted fans, now drones themselves, began to spread the black rubber further. They attended matches and gatherings, covertly transferring the liquid rubber to others. The influence of the drones grew exponentially, reaching more and more people with each passing day.

The rubber drones mission began to expand beyond their local fanbase. The drones traveled to other cities and countries, targeting soccer fans worldwide. Their goal was clear: to convert all the men of the world into obedient rubber drones, serving the black liquid rubber's insatiable will.

[kalgalen]

like not to be an ungrateful bitch and it MIGHT be like. because i'm only one person and as such only have my perspective to go on but it really feels like other people's sketches regularly hit numbers i can never even hope to reach with finished pieces

maybe i should start only drawing fanart for fics and only sharing the result with the writers since there's more chance of them being hyped up by it than like. screaming into the void

[maym0rin]

Trucy Wright Lore for my Royalty AU!

Yes there's actual magic in this AU, i mean, we have the Feys 😂I will write about the Feys (especially Maya) soon!

Alt Text: Trucy Wright (Gramarye)

A powerful pure-blood witch. The only descendant of Troupe Gramarye, a group of traveling magicians that's showing the world the acceptance of magic through fun and Interesting magic entertainment.

Her father was accused of killing her grandfather while traveling through the kingdom (Edgeworth's), causing the troupe to fall apart. Her father disappeared all of the sudden during his court hearing, while her uncle was temporarily jailed for tampering evidence with his magic before leaving the kingdom a few months later, planning to bring back Troupe Gramarye to its former glory alone. Her mother was presumed dead a year before the incident.

Phoenix Wright, who has some relations with her father decided to adopt her despite that his Grand Knight role was ripped off. With Eddie Fender's help, she managed to secure a home and a job at wonder bar as a magic entertainer to help with her family's living cost.

She has a puppet familiar and best magic assistant named "Mr Hats".

He can change his size from big to small under her command. He has a conscious mind of his own too, moving and flying however he wants. He cannot speak by himself, but Trucy can understand him well, and sometimes he would be used for ventriloquism.

It was said that her old father created him for her, but the design of Mr Hats resembling her old father was Trucy's choice at that time.

Mr hats doesn't like being away from his master unless commanded, very protective of her. Tends to hide under her cape.

He can carry people too. (Max 2 ppl)

Every witch and wizard needs one or more tools to calibrate their proper magic output and accuracy.

Trucy's magic tools are her thin golden baton and diamond-shaped brooch.

Trucy can cast any kind of magic spells, an All-rounder.

She loves harmless magic, thus her main magic specialty is Illusion and light magic.

Also likes card magic too, because no magic output is required most of the time.

Wizards/witches and magic are still not well known around the world as they tend to hide themselves away from normal humans due to the danger of their magic as weapons of war and maintaining the purity of their magic bloodline.

It Is extremely rare to see a wizard/witch that mingles In the human society as they tend to be travelers or those that left their magic society on their own violation to live with humans.

Humans still fear the presence of magic, and some have hatred towards them. Troupe Gramarye left their magic society to counter that Issue. They are well accepted In Edgeworth's Kingdom due to their history with the old king Edgeworth.

Note: Trucy's outfit for this AU can be exactly replicated from her original design outfit except the witch hat, but I want to change more details that differentiate between the original and Royalty AU.

[ilovejeongintoo]

"𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕒 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪 𝕒 𝕘𝕒𝕞𝕖?"

Jigsaw (Saw) & the Reluctant Participant Kink: Interrogation Play Warnings: cnc, degradation (just a lil),Jungwon is lowkey scary, sex machine, orgasm denial, edging Prompt: Trapped and powerless, you find yourself at the mercy of the infamous Jigsaw, your body craving the twisted pleasure he offers. As control slips from your grasp, desire and submission blur, leading you down a dark, seductive path where surrender becomes the ultimate thrill. How far will you go when there's no turning back?

The second installment to my Kinktober List 2024.

Darkness surrounded you, you were drowning in the dark around you. Your eyes couldn't make out any surrounding walls the slightly dimmed, single light above your head not helping you see. It wasn't quiet though, a whirring in the background maybe some kind of machinery being a constant noise. A smell of old dust maybe cement or stone you couldn’t tell.

When you start becoming more aware you feel the press of cold metal around your wrists and ankles, moving them but being pinned too close to really move at all. They wrapped tight around your limbs and the chair you were tightly strapped to. Your heartbeat increases more the more conscious you become. Your head pounds when you try turning it and a metallic noise sounds out in the room.

Then you hear a voice, talking slow and calculated, and a shiver runs through you. You can't really tell where it's coming from, still disoriented.

There’s bold lettering on the walls spelling out the sentence;” Wanna play a game?” Though your muffled brain doesn’t catch the clue. The writing done with red dripping paint.

"You’ve been living in the shadows of your desires for too long, haven’t you?"

You know who it is immediately. The telltale sign of the room, his voice, his choice of words. It all points its fingers to one person. Jigsaw. You've heard of people disappearing but it all seemed so unbelievable, so distant until right now.

You can’t tell where the voice is coming from. A small old speaker situated in the corner gives the output of his voice a slight crackle. Each word was slow, methodical like he really wanted you to listen carefully.

“For too long, you've indulged in a life of selfishness and excess, but today you will confront the truths you’ve buried deep inside. Today, you’ll face your punishment.”

Your punishment? For what? What did you do? Your mind races to find any explanation. The last thing that you remember before getting here….

Your breath catches in your throat in panic. A hiss cuts through the air. The uselessly dimming light illuminating a corner. That's when you see it, the machine that you've been hearing since the beginning. A big construction of steel, wires, tubes, and complex-looking engineering.

Right in front stands a cloaked figure, masked in the infamous puppet.

Jigsaw

He steps forward brushing his fingers along the machine's surface, the sound ominous, making you scared of what is to come. His voice, though distorted from his mask is clearer now booming through the room without the speaker.

"This machine I constructed will test you—your limits, your fears, your deepest urges. It is the key to your survival."

You struggle more against your restraints, he only continues watching in amusement.

“Your life, your choices... they’ve led you here.”

He pauses slightly  “You believe control gives you power, that by dominating others, you are invincible. But true power comes from understanding weakness. Now, you will be stripped of your control, left to endure the very submission you’ve forced onto others.”

You froze when he mentioned this. Yes, you had been a bit of a control freak and maybe that had led to your partners leaving you but did that really warrant you getting punished by the one and only Jigsaw killer? You weren’t a corrupt authority figure or a drug abuser. You just liked being in control of everything, your life, your decisions, your partners, and everything in the bedroom. 

You couldn’t let yourself be vulnerable with them but it could have been worse, you kept telling yourself.

What if I can’t take this? What if I break? The thought sends shivers down your spine but maybe… maybe I deserve this.

Your brain supplies uselessly, just adding unnecessary fear.

The chains tighten against your body suddenly, pulling you upright and facing the machine. It’s louder now as if it was preparing itself for the task ahead.

"You see, this is not a game of pain alone, but a game of pleasure and control—of denial and submission. If you wish to live, you must learn the cost of indulgence. Every choice you make will bring you closer to release... or your end.”

Your eyes widen in fear your body trembling just slightly 

He moves closer his voice deeper and more intimate now. You can see a mop of brown hair peeking out from his hood and it drops slightly in front of the mask.

“But I warn you... the release you seek may not be the one you think.”

The lights turn on and off, and a cold metallic arm extends from the machine, hovering inches from your body. Terrified you look at it then back at your captor as if your pleading look would get him to release you.

“Your test begins now.”

The metal arms the machine carries click further, stirring in their place. For a moment you hold your breath in anticipation of what's going to come next. The cold air hushes against your skin and you become aware; that you’re still clothed but for how long?

He steps closer his voice as calm as ever though the weight of his words grows heavier each time.

“You’ve spent your life hiding behind the armor of your choices. Your clothes... your mask. But here, there is no mask. No barriers.”

He makes another pause that drags on uncomfortably long so.

“The truth is revealed when there’s nothing left to hide.”

He gestures slowly to the arms and before you can react they lurch forward, grasping at your clothes and removing them one by one. There’s no aggression no rush, the movements are slow, practiced sharp motions stripping you of your last clothing items.

They easily slice through the fabric and your skin forms goosebumps from the cold in the room. You stay impossible still though in case they would accidentally cut not just the fiber.

Jigsaw watches without any noise or reaction, he sees every twitch of discomfort, every taken breath, and every bodily response. His gaze isn’t lustful, it’s calculating almost clinical as if undressing you was just another test, just another day.

He was doing more than just removing your clothes, he was getting rid of your last defenses. You press your eyes closed in hopes of waking up from this nightmare and if not just helping you slip into a state of ignorance bliss. 

He notices immediately.

“The more you fight, the longer this will take,” he murmurs. “You cannot hide from your desires. And soon, you won’t be able to hide from mine.”

The final fabric falling to the floor you open your eyes again, left completely naked, completely exposed, bound to the machine, revealed by the forever flickering overhead light. Your skin burns with the cold but even more from the burning gaze of being watched - Jigsaw’s masked gaze drinking up everything.

For a moment, all is still. The whir of the machine quiets, leaving only the sound of their ragged breathing.

“Now,” Jigsaw finally says, stepping closer, his voice low and deliberate, “we can begin.”

The masked man’s voice breaks the silence, his tone calm but heavy with purpose.

"You’ve spent your life controlling everything and everyone around you. But what happens when the one thing you can’t control… is yourself?"

He steps closer around you, circling like you’re prey and he’s the predator that will sink his teeth into you. The constant noise of the machine does nothing to calm you down, it just furthers the energy in the room.

"Here’s your first question: When was the last time you let someone else take control?"

You thought about it for a moment, your cheeks heating up despite the situation given, out of embarrassment at having to admit to these kinds of questions.

"I don’t remember. It’s been a long time." you reluctantly respond, unwilling to give up any more information. You were hoping he didn’t know you too closely to think of this as a “wrong” answer. Playing stupid in front of a genius killer.

“Please you don’t have to do any of this. I already learned my lesson, just…please let me go.” You tried reasoning because you really would try to change.

You gulped your fear down slightly. Not willing to show how much he affected your emotions. He can’t know, because exactly that, he will use against you.

Jigsaw’s mask tilts slightly, as if in curiosity, though his voice remains in the same tone as always, no hint of any emotion. He ignored your effort to try and convince him to let you go.

"You’re not as good at avoiding the truth as you think. You’ve let someone take control before... and you’ll do it again, whether you admit it or not. But denial has its consequences."

His hand moved in his dark coat, probably pressing a button.

Your heart rate spiked up. And the machine’s arm buzzes, the hum rising in pitch as it begins its cruel teasing, it started slow, the touch foreign. A little uncomfortable on your skin, surgical. The coldness of the metal pipes that brushed against your sides contrasted with the softness of the hands themselves. They caressed your chest, not going straight to torturing your most intimate parts. They just slightly massaged your nipples, making them hard rather quickly because of how soft the hands themselves felt. You stared down at them in focus and bit your lips to stifle any noises.

You could deal with this, if it stayed just like this, which you seriously doubted. But nonetheless, you pep-talked yourself.

Just when you thought you were getting used to the sensations on your body the arms moved down your body until they reached the place that was dripping now. One circled your clit, and buzzed a little in vibration. It made you try and curl into yourself, denying yourself to enjoy the pleasurable feel but your restraints kept you immobile, you could only squirm and clench your teeth to not make any noise however when the other one moved down to your slicked-up hole, and began pushing a solid digit in, a moan slipped out.

You were slowly breaking, each movement making it harder to concentrate, soon you’d have to choose between stifling your noises and answering your captor.

“Avoidance won’t save you. You can’t control what you refuse to face.”

A pause. Then, the next question cuts through the silence.

“Tell me... when was the last time you let yourself lose control—completely?”

The words hang in the air like a challenge, daring you to confront your deepest vulnerabilities.

And you think about his words from before, there was a slight warning in it, making you rethink how you should reply to this one. You pause a little more.

"I… I don’t know. I can’t remember." You nonetheless answer.

His laughter, low and almost mocking, fills the room. Oh, you fucked up, didn’t you? Regret flooding your system immediately, and wishing you could take your response back.

"You’re lying to yourself now. You remember.” He steps behind you now. The hair on your neck rises in anticipation and fright of not being able to see him. Losing that control so easily.

 “You’ve lost control before, and you will again. But you’re still clinging to your delusion of power. Let’s see how much longer that lasts."

The machine’s touch becomes more relentless, it drags so deliciously over your folds, then back into your hole and out again. teasing you more relentlessly now. You were so close but it just wasn’t quite enough. Each time you almost let yourself step over that edge it would get pulled away from you. The constant denial drives the message home: the more you refuse to admit the truth, the less control you have.

There’s only one way out of this. To answer honestly. And that’s the thing you dread most.

The machine turns so loud now, but you can barely focus on anything besides the constant stimulation your pussy is receiving. You’re so so close. Your body is trembling in frustration from not getting any release your breathing is shallow and quick. Your ass was soaked in your own juices making the slide so wet. Your hips unconsciously tried pushing against the hands searching for just enough stimuli to reach your high.

Jigsaw’s voice, calm but with an undercurrent of menace, cuts through the tension. And he steps back into your line of sight his tall frame intimidating even if he isn’t physically big.

“You’re still avoiding the truth. How long do you think you can hold onto this delusion?”

The pressure increases, the sensation teetering on the edge of unbearable, and yet it keeps you hanging just short of satisfaction. The more you resist, the more helpless you feel. The room grows colder, the air heavy with the weight of Jigsaw's impending next question.

Jigsaw’s voice becomes darker, more insistent. He unbuttoned the first buttons of his cape, slowly taking it off. Revealing a dress shirt, a grey vest, a tie, and matching slacks underneath. Formal wear, something you definitely didn’t expect

You threw the cape into a corner of the room. His clothes pleasingly fit his form, lean muscles making them fit on him deliciously. You immediately shook your head from the thoughts invading your mind.

“Since you can’t seem to tell the truth about losing control, let’s make it simpler.”

You sigh slightly in relief, maybe he would make this easier on you. He pauses, letting the silence stretch painfully long, allowing your mounting frustration to fester.

“When was the last time you were forced to submit to someone else’s will?”

He leans closer, the weight of his presence suffocating, even though you can’t see his face clearly behind the mask. You could just slightly make out his dark eyes behind the mesh of the eye holes.

His hand came up to your face picking it up and tilting it, making you automatically have to let your eyes stay on him.

“Tell me, who made you feel powerless?” With his eyes piercing you it was like he lured the truth out of you.

You felt the machine's arms twitch, waiting for the answer, threatening more denial or perhaps something worse. The movement completely halting made your answer finally be something akin of the truth.

“I… I was forced before. It’s happened before, and I hated it.” Your thoughts flashed back to your ex, how no matter what you told him, he just did whatever he wanted. You had lost total control not just of your guys’ relationship but also yourself. And you never absolutely ever wanted to experience something like that again.

Now you were forced to confront that same thing.

The room falls silent, and for the first time, Jigsaw’s voice softens, though it still carries a chilling edge. He caresses your head in a gesture that was supposed to be reassuring but made it feel more mockingly with the mask staring down at you.

“Good. You’re starting to understand. Submission is not a weakness, but denial of it is. The truth you fear most is what will set you free... if you survive.”

The machine’s teasing is slower now, giving them just enough reprieve to catch their breath. The chains remain tight, but the suffocating pressure eases. Jigsaw’s voice lowers to a whisper. His hold on you releasing.

“But this is far from over. You’ve only scratched the surface of your truth. There’s still more to reveal.” He steps away from you, crossing his arms and tilting his head in observation.

The tension from your body slightly eases from the slowed-down movements, giving you time to take some much-needed shaky breaths. The cold air once again seems more present now, prickling your skin your heart still pounding from the onslaught of pleasure from before. The machine’s grip eases just a fraction.

 After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice quieter but still filled with unmatched control.

“Good. Admitting that you’ve submitted before means you’re starting to understand the game. Submission isn’t weakness—it’s inevitable when your will is tested beyond its limits.”

It almost sounded like he wanted to reassure you that it was okay, to admit these dark vulnerabilities to him. Well if you did, you might as well do it here. You doubt a serial killer will judge you much for what you’ll be saying.

A brief pause, his masked face tilting the other way slightly as though studying you.

“But don’t mistake this for mercy. Your truth is just the beginning. Now we see how deep your submission runs.”

The machine remains poised, its presence a constant threat, but for now, it lingers, awaiting the next phase of the game.

Jigsaw steps closer, the sound of his footsteps sharp against the cold floor. The black dress shoes that you take notice of now, snapping against the concrete.  He’s still calm, still methodical, but now there’s a palpable shift in his demeanor. He’s pushing deeper into your mind, now that he knows you have started to break.

“Since you’ve confessed to losing control, it’s time we explore something else.”

His voice lowers, the intensity rising in his tone as he moves even closer. Each time he was about to ask a question your heart would pick up a few beats, the only thing filling you being pure and utter terror.

“You’re not just afraid of losing control… are you? You’re afraid of how much you crave it.”

Your breath hitched because you knew, you knew how right he was about that. The tension in the air thickens as he leans in, his breath cold against your skin. A shaky breath escaped you at the contact. Just a little more and his mask would brush against you if he would just take it off and do exactly that. You almost missed the constant rubbing and teasing the hands provided.

“So tell me... when was the last time you gave in to that craving and enjoyed being powerless?”

The question is like a knife, cutting into your deepest, most secret desires. Your body stiffens, the air suddenly feeling even colder, as you realize what Jigsaw is really asking—the fear and desire to submit intertwined.

“I… I don’t want to admit it, but I have enjoyed it before. I didn’t mean to, but I did.” Your eyes fell shut again at your admission like that could hide you.

Jigsaw falls silent, and the air feels thick with tension, each second feels longer and longer. The mechanical humming seems to soften slightly, but the weight of the your confession hangs in the room like a dark cloud.

“Now you’re starting to understand.” His face moves away but not very far.

The machine slows, giving the victim just enough relief to let their body relax, though the threat still lingers. Jigsaw steps back, watching as the victim trembles, their skin still sensitive from the teasing denial.

“Admitting you’ve enjoyed powerlessness is the first step. But now comes the real test. We’re going to see how much you can take before that craving becomes your breaking point.”

Jigsaw stands still for a moment, letting the weight of the victim’s confession settle in. Processing. The air feels heavier, your pulse racing as you realize what you’ve just admitted. The machine, which had briefly slowed its torment, hums again, but this time with a new energy.

"So, you’ve finally confessed. You’ve craved the very thing you’ve always denied—powerlessness."

He steps forward, his presence even more imposing. The cold metal of the machine hums louder, and the victim's body, trembling with anticipation, tightens as the teasing pulses resume. The sensation is different now faster, more concentrated more focused in a new vigor.

Jigsaw’s voice lowers, almost intimate, as he leans in close to the victim’s ear.

"Now, let’s test how deep that craving goes."

He flips a switch on the machine, and instantly, the teasing becomes an overwhelming onslaught of pleasure and pain, pushing you closer to the edge than they’ve ever been before. In a matter of seconds, you're back to panting like a dog in heat. The mechanical arms grip tighter, pulling your body taut as the pulses of sensation ripple through you. It’s like they knew each brush, each thrust, each button to get you closer and closer.

You buck involuntarily against the restraints, your breath quickening, muscles straining. Your moans ring out clearly through the room no restrain anymore in them. 

"Do you want to submit completely?" Jigsaw’s voice echoes, a command hidden in the question.

Jigsaw stands still for a moment, letting the weight of the victim’s confession settle in. The air feels heavier, their pulse racing as they realize what they’ve just admitted. The machine, which had briefly slowed its torment, hums again, but this time with a new energy.

"So, you’ve finally confessed. You’ve craved the very thing you’ve always denied—powerlessness."

He steps forward, his presence even more imposing. The cold metal of the machine hums louder, and the victim's body, trembling with anticipation, tightens as the teasing pulses resume. The sensation is different now—more intense, more invasive—yet still withholding that elusive release.

Jigsaw’s voice lowers, almost intimate, as he leans in close to the victim’s ear.

"Now, let’s test how deep that craving goes."

He flips a switch on the machine, and instantly, the teasing becomes an overwhelming onslaught of pleasure and pain, pushing the victim closer to the edge than they’ve ever been before. The mechanical arms grip tighter, pulling their body taut as the pulses of sensation ripple through them.

Your body bucks involuntarily against the restraints, your breath quickening, muscles straining. 

"Do you want to submit completely?" Jigsaw’s voice echoes, a command hidden in the question.

"Tell me," Jigsaw continues, his voice a dangerous whisper. "If you want release, beg for it. Admit you have no control left. If you refuse, you’ll stay here, until your mind and body break."

You can barely think, your body trembling involuntarily as the machine keeps you teetering on the edge, closer to release than ever but still denied. Every muscle strains against the chains, to try and get out, as you feel your resolve slipping.

"Submit completely," Jigsaw orders, the demand hanging heavy in the air. "Or resist, and you will never know release again."

It was clear what your answer was going to be. Too out of it to even try to resist his commands. Too fucking desperate to get that release, to feel yourself leak onto the machinery below. To make a mess of everything even more.

You're too overwhelmed by the relentless sensations, gasping for breath. Aching for release, the denial becoming unbearable, bordering painful.

You wanted to let go, absolutely you did. You wanted somebody to completely take over the reins that you so desperately held on to. To give yourself completely over, to not focus on any control at all because that someone, you would trust completely.

“Please…” you whisper, your voice trembling, soaked in desperation. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I submit. I’m not in control. I… I need it.” Each word spills from your lips, raw and pleading, your gaze locked onto his, craving touch, his touch

A sinister smile creeps beneath his mask, a dark victory shining in his eyes. The machine’s movements slow, almost as if savoring your confession. The restraints tighten one last time, an agonizing reminder of your submission, before—release. The mechanical pulses surge, overwhelming your senses in a tidal wave of sensation.

But it’s his fingers you feel now—long, thick, and unmistakably human. Your eyes snap open, and there he is, Jigsaw, looming over you, a predator inching closer. As his fingers plunge deep inside you, you can’t help but feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against your thigh. The heat radiates from him, mingling with your own arousal, igniting a primal fire within.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with lust. “So eager to be used. You’re just a filthy little thing, begging for it.” Your body convulses at his words, caught in a dizzying mix of pleasure and pain. Each thrust of his fingers drags against your walls, expertly hitting that sensitive spot the machines had cruelly denied.

“Can you feel how much I want you?” he breathes, his breath quickening, sending shivers down your spine. “You’re mine now. I’m going to make you feel every bit of it. I’ll take that control and give you exactly what you crave” The way he speaks makes your head spin, and you realize he’s as lost in this moment as you are, his arousal palpable and intoxicating.

“Good. You’ve learned your lesson,” he growls, his voice a low, seductive rumble that vibrates through your core. “But remember… this is only the beginning of your real submission. I want you to scream for me, to beg for more.” The tension hangs thick in the air, the two of you bound together in this dark, twisted dance of desire.

As your mind spirals into blissful oblivion, everything fades to black—just as it all began. You’re left spent, breathless, fully aware that you’ve relinquished the control you once clung to so desperately. In this dark embrace, surrender becomes the sweetest ecstasy, a thrilling intertwining of your desires and his.

[hazyaltcare]

Typing Quirk Suggestions for a Robot kin

I hope it gives you a wonderful uptime! :3

Mod Vintage (⭐)

Letter replacements:

Replace "O" with zeroes "0"

Replace "i" or "L" with ones "1"

Replace "one" with "1", including "one" sounds like "any1", or "we 1 = we won" (the past tense of "win")

Replace "zero" with "0"

Frankly, you can just replace all sorts of letters with numbers, such as

R = 12

N = 17

B = 8

A = 4

E = 3

etc.

or maybe make all "A"s and "i"s capitalized, cause "A.I." (artificial intelligence

Prefixes and Suffixes:

Get inspired by programming languages!

Begin your text with "//" like a comment on C++

If you prefer other languages comment tags, you can use "< !--your text-- >"

Or maybe begin it with " int main () { std::cout << "your text"" and end with "return 0; }" like C++ too

Greet people with the classic "Hello world!"

Or greet people with "beep boop!" honestly, I have no idea where this comes from, but it's cute.

Or write down html stuff, like sandwiching your italicized text with "< em> "

The possibilities are endless!

Robot Lingo:

(under the cut because there's a LOT! maybe terabytes! ...just kidding >;3c)

.

some of these are from the machinesoul.net robot server! (not sponsored) (we're not in there anymore, but we saw the robot lingo shared there when we were)

Fronting = logged in, connected

Not fronting = logged out, disconnected

Conscious = activated

Dormant = deactivated

Blurry = no signal

Upset, angry = hacked

Small = bits, bytes

Bite = byte

Huge = gigabytes, terabytes, etc.

Your intake of food, medicine, etc. = input

Your artwork, cooking, handiwork, handwriting, etc. = output

Body = chassis, unit

Brain = CPU, processor

Mind = program, code

Imagination = simulation

Purpose = directive

Nerves = wires

Skin = plating

Organs = (function) units

Limbs = actuators

Eyes = ocular sensors

Glasses = HUD (head's up display)

Hair = wires

Ears = antennae, audio sensors

Nose = olfactory sensors

Heart = core

Liver = detoxification unit

Circulatory system = circuits

Voice = speaker, voice module, voice box

Mouth = face port

Name = designation

Sleep = sleep mode, low power mode, charging

Eat = fuel, batteries

Energy = batteries

Tired = low on batteries

Translate = compile

Memory = data, database

Bed = recharge pod/charger

Dreaming = simulation

Birthday = day of manufacture

Talking = communicating

Thinking = processing

Transitioning = modifying your chassis

Depression = downtime

Joy = uptime

Trash = scrap metal

Fresh/Clean = polished

Keysmashing = random 1s and 0s

Self-care = system maintenance

Going to the doctor = trip to the mechanic

Group = network

Anyone = anybot

[cy-lindric]

I wanted to vent, but also ask an honest question. Since I was a teenager, I always wanted to work on character design. And one thing that always caught my attention was how I always preferred male character designs over female ones. My first thought was that I was always more into androgynous fashion and more masculine styles. But time passed and I came to the conclusion that it wasn't just that, and it seems that male characters can always be different things: fat, thin, handsome, ugly, short, tall, young, old, etc. and female characters, for the most part, fall into two categories: cute or sexy. I wanted some tips on how I can make female characters with more interesting designs, without having to fall into those two categories. I love your work and you managed to make someone else like the three musketeers <3<3

Hello ! That's definitely a good question and something I think about a lot. The bias towards beauty is very strong in character design and it takes a conscious effort to diversify output in that regard.

That sort of advice might be a bit obvious, but one habit I picked up from the director on my first feature film gig was to actually "cast" characters. Without reference, we tend to go for the kind of symmetrical face and "average" features mostly out of stylistic habit. I like to look at character actors with distinct faces (I like this pinterest page that has a lot of faces in one place) but also just acquaintances or pictures of random crowds.

When designing a character, at first I'm always building a big reference board trying to decide what Type of Guy (gender neutral) I'm going for, trying use photos rather than other people's art, because I want to rely on automatics and graphic symbols as little as possible. Whether I'm designing a man or a woman or other, I use references of fashion styles and people across the board in terms of gender so I keep the scope open. Sometimes a character ref board for me will be a picture of one of my aunts next to a bunch of screenshots of Columbo. In my experience, a lot of the times, it's mostly about going with styles and archetypes the same way you would for a male character, and switching it up somewhere along the way by looking at real women in your life and beyond as a grounding mechanism. Sometimes that will mean changing almost nothing, because the borders between genders and how you characterize them is blurry and fluid, and sometimes it will mean using features that are uniquely tied to some sort of female experience.

I enjoy realism and I think getting more proficient at it did help me diversify my designs (I find that more difficult to do with more minimalistic styles). Still, I am mostly a fantasy artist and in my case that comes with some amount of stylization and idealization of shapes and looks. I'm far from perfect in my biases and I'm not going out of my way to draw "ugly" characters because that doesn't mean much to me ; I try to draw inspiration from the faces of every day people and I associate it with my love for fashion. It's also worth noting the work I post here for fun is a lot more hash tag aesthetic than the stuff I do professionally where diversity is much more important.

I don't know if any of that is relevant but that's definitely an interesting topic ! I'd love to know others' perspective and tips on the matter.

[snipdoodle]

I feel self conscious about my only artistic output over the past half year almost all being centered around my fursona but then I remember she's cool and awesome and I go another day drawing the same kitty

[artbyblastweave]

What is the most genuinely fucked-up, Rod-Serling-on-steroids, 'how does a human brain even conceive of this, and should I call the FBI on them' moment you can remember reading in a cape comic?

My barometer on this is cooked from a couple different directions. Direction One is that I bucket the writers who're deliberately taking the piss differently from the guys who generated something horrific completely on autopilot. When Ennis, Ellis or Millar do something fucked up in a cape book, they're grinning and looking you in the eye and daring you to get mad; stuff like the infamous Carol-Danvers-pregnant-with-her-own-rapist plot point is a lot less visually disgusting than the output of the 90s shock jocks but comes from a place of zero self-awareness that makes it feel way worse to me.

A second problem is that you judge big-two output on a different scale from Indie Cape stuff; for Big two, you round up because even a mild grotesquery is something that had to bypass image-conscious editors; with indie stuff, seeing what over-the-top horrific things can be done in the cape genre without those editors breathing down your neck is half of the pitch.

Lastly, I permanently fucked my barometer for this stuff because I read Marvel Zombies when I was eight years old, and Invincible when I was 11, and as a consequence my ability to gauge fuck-upped-ness was dragged out behind the woodshed and beaten to death with an empty gun.

^ Normal superhero comic. To me

Anyway, lightning round of a few things that actually did fuck with me a little bit, regardless of how I'd rank them objectively or whether I'd stoop to getting the feds involved- No Hero by Warren Ellis and Juan Jose Ryp features a sequence where a guy takes a mutagenic drug that gives you superpowers via really bad acid trip and it's a sequence that's deliberately incredibly disgusting; I've never reread that comic. Patrick Hovarth's Adam Strange short from issue 4 of the recent DC Horror Anthology was grotesquely compelling in how it paired a deliberately-visually-ridiculous difficult-to-take-seriously affliction and a pastel tumblr memoir art-style (complementary) with a horrifyingly bleak apocalyptic tone. Only halfway interesting thing to come out of that project. I had a third example but I forgot what it was

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

why is headless women art bad? i can see why it's seen as objectifying but why is it such a big deal to make art out of the female form? (sorry if i sound agressive this is a genuine question)

Hi anon! You certainly don’t sound aggressive - I’m actually very grateful for the opportunity to collate my current thoughts in one place, so thank you for the prompt. I’m going to try my hardest to keep this short.

For any women who haven’t seen posts on this topic previously, some examples of the ‘headless women art’ trend I’ve been talking about for a while now are below. They’re often missing their limbs, at various points of amputation, as well as all or part of their heads (if she has her eyes, I generally don’t count it). Sometimes their heads have been ‘replaced’ with other objects, typically plants or mushrooms, though I wouldn’t count a woman with an animal or bird’s head. They’re often naked.

So, per Anon’s question, why is it a ‘big deal’?

I mean, really, it’s not. It’s an absolutely minuscule deal - it’s as dwarfed by the issues of the sex industry, femicide, and systemic sex inequality, as we are by the Sun. And yet, much as our bodies are made of particles formed in dying stars, I see elements of the large within the small… ok, I’m not getting poetic.

It’s not a big deal, and I don’t necessarily think it’s wholly terrible either, which is why in my analysis posts on the topic I try to ask questions more than criticise, and criticise gently when I do so. What it comes down to is that I spotted a pattern, and wanted to acknowledge that pattern, think about it, and ask other women for their thoughts on it.

With that said, there are certain things that I question particularly, and have seen other women question, which I’ll list:

Remove her legs and she can’t run, remove her arms and she can’t fight, remove her mouth and she can’t shout, and remove her eyes and she can’t look back at you. You totally disempower her when you remove almost every body part capable of action.

By removing her head you also remove her brain (her personality and internal identity), and her face (her visible external identity). By anonymising her you strip her of her individuality, and depict all female people as a result - so what message are you sending about all female people with your depiction of us, naked and dismembered?

A (living) woman’s neutral existence requires her to have her head. By removing it, you are making an active choice to step away from the neutral (and it’s on you to defend that choice), and you are also by necessity depicting a dead woman. You ask about ‘art out of the female form’ - the living female form has a head. Why remove it?

The simplest test of whether something might be sexist, is to see whether it applies to men and women equally. Are (straight) men decorating their homes with ‘bits’ of male bodies? Do men in general feel conscious enough of, yet alienated enough from, the appearance of their bodies that they seek out their representation, sans heads, to reflect back at them? Why not, if women are? Would it be strange if they did?

As a follow up, since many of these pieces are made by women (often straight women), are (straight) men often focusing their artistic output on depicting ‘bits’ of male bodies? Do men regularly choose to create art intended to depict the ‘beauty’ of the male form? If not, why not?

You mention objectification - what links are there between objectification and violence? Could self-objectification be used to normalise violence against the self, or even excuse it? What about violence against others who are like the self (ie violence against other women)?

As I say, I’m not necessarily saying this artistic trend is exclusively a bad one, or that people/women in particular shouldn’t be decorating their homes however they please. It’s just something I’ve noted and found interesting, and like many apparently free choices, I think feminist women have a responsibility to interrogate their own and others’ motivations.

This is a hasty overview, and I’ve probably missed things - I’ll reblog with additions if I think of any, but you can also see my previous posts on this topic, and other women’s contributions, under my “Headless Women Art” tag. Thanks again for the question!

[spoiled-fawn]

TF 141: Owl Hybrid HCS

Hi! I'm alive, just working on several things at once so my writing output is slow. This may be too niche but I've been thinking about this too much and wanted to share. Yes, I will be coming out with a Price x reader hybrid fic and this kinda sets the tone for it. I hope you enjoy!

A group of owls is called a parliament.

No warnings. There are some 141 x reader bits as well

PRICE: Blakiston’s Fish Owl

Price is a big bird, and is the largest in terms of body weight and wingspan comparisons. His wings take up a majority of his space when on the ground and in his human form. His feathers are monochromatic with brown and tan, his broad and ragged ear tufts start on his temple and hang slightly to the side- still perfectly seen and sticking out when he wears his boonie hat.

The scars on his neck mark a historic battle between him and a foe. His damage? His vocal chords.

This man has a deep hoot that now sounds like a scratchy croak most nights. He feels self-conscious about it after the damage that occurred but will use it to startle or scare enemies mostly. 

If you ask to hear his hoot he gets flustered.

Being the alpha predator, he is very territorial. Not so much over his nest or room, but rather his parliament. Over the others, he tends to take care of them as a stand-in father figure that none of them have. With his big form and feathers, you can find either of the sergeants nestled into his chest like the pillow Price is.

Playing with his ear tufts is a dangerous game, as your hand will either be pecked at or he’ll give you nesting eyes depending on his mood.

Loves fish, and will even eat it raw if his owl sense is craving it.

His species spends an unusual amount of time on the ground and prefers to travel as humans do when applicable. 

When fishing, he prefers to do so as his breed does. Dive in and catch the fish himself.

Likes to nest in tight spaces (that mimic hollow trees). Will make a fort between a plethora of cushions and blankets to hide within.

GHOST: Great Gray Owl

While Ghost is the largest member of 141, in his owl form, he almost doubles in size due to his plumage. The Great Gray has fluffy feathers and the longest tail, making him all the more threatening

He is not the type to build nests, but will often steal nests of others. He’s been found in Price’s nests when the Captain leaves for office work or has been known to crash into Soap's nest with no care to the men squawking

He’s vain to a fault. Will always preen himself in private, and the one time you pulled a cracked feather he immediately blushed snatched it from your hand, and left in a hurry to make sure there were no others

Once you got to really get close to him, he would let you do it for him.

Absolutely loses it when you call him pretty bird.

You also got him to parrot it back to you once and he almost cried with embarrassment.

Also has a deep hoot, but his come in shorter and quicker successions. 

These owls, much like Ghost, are hard to find. They tend to keep to themselves and blend into their surroundings by remaining still. There is minimal aggression in terms of territory, but when the 141 parliament is threatened, his talons are ready to maul.

SOAP: Barn Owl

Have you heard a Barn Owls call? It can get really annoying or is beyond terrifying.

Soap’s subspecies is the T. a. Guttata; He is large for his species while having grey and orange upperparts with an orange buff. He has speckling to his underpart feathers, and his face is white.

Will sometimes take naps in a roost of his choosing (supply closet, rafters of the gym) but does tend to make his own nest when needing a deep and comfortable sleep after a good meal or long mission. 

Makes a fuss when Ghost crashes his nest. He hisses and snaps his beak at the large hybrid but shuts up when he gets to nestle under his wings.

Soap bonded with Ghost over his species being known as the “Ghost Owl” to some, but also that they have a similar lay of face feathers.

Soap is a curious hybrid in nature, and not always defensive when a different species (or human) is interacting with 141. The first time he met you, his wings splayed out while he looked you over - too closely.

While looking at your dog tags (or any other jewelry) he accidentally beat his wing feathers on your face.

You lost your balance and spooked him, causing him to hiss at you. And beat you over the head with his wing, again.

He is very cuddly when on base, likes to be by your side, and at least has his wing draped on you if it's movie night.

GAZ: Great Horned Owl 

One of Gaz’s strong suits is his ability to camouflage. His feathers comprise a darker brown and even darker, complex markings across. He does have a patch of white feathers on his throat when fully shifted, and people make jokes that it's as if he wears a button-up shirt.

He has the classic owl hoot, and will often use it as comedic relief if a joke doesn't land. It is the most calming and subtle of the group, so he will often use it to find the other members while on base.

His eyes are big. Can give you the sweetest looks without saying anything, and is an absolute heartmelter when his tired eyes show in the daytime.

Like Price, he has tufts on the side of his head but are much smaller in comparison. They do as well peak out from under his cap.

He can adapt to the heat of the desert easily, and if in the Sonoran Desert again, he likes to sit in the sun to warm up.

Gaz does nest, but his is a bit wild and messy in terms of blankets and pillows strewn about when doing so. He doesn't need much, but when in his nesting season he can become aggressive and grumpy.

Price jokes that he can be like a parrot. Somewhat playful but has a tolerance when being preened at by the Captain himself.

Has nipped Price before.

Gaz keeps his talons well-maintained. He lost one in a fight before, and now takes excellent care of them. 

When he becomes fond of you, he will snag you by the arms and fly you in the air with him. Very cautious to not hurt you!

He one time made a nest high up in the rafters in the base but fell out of it and onto the ground when Ghost caught him sleeping.

~~~~~~

Cannot stop imagining Price's owl with a boonie hat on top. Like PLEASE. So cute and deadly.

[togglesbloggle]

Animals

As usual, it’s one of those questions that admits many answers- what is this animal business, anyway?  And there are plenty of good responses; animals have a pretty distinct phylogenetic lineage, especially once you hit the Cambrian.  So there are some nice snappy responses to the question.  Collagen, for example.  Animals are the collagen-users, ranging from our own human scar tissue all the way back to sponges’ use of it as a binding agent.

But you know, probably not what the poets had in mind when they wrote about “the peace of wild things.”  Even though collagen is very interesting!

So I’ve been thinking more about the poets’ answer to the question, whatever that might be.  The vitality of animals, and the agency.  The kind of heat they have, in both a metaphorical and often literal sense, and the particular way they carve out a fierce and bloody selfhood within the burgeoning cosmos.

You can’t be too literal, of course.  That’s the way with poets.  They’d probably include amoebae, for example, and a lot of the more heterotrophic protists, not just members of the animal kingdom as such.  That’s fine.  There’s a meaningful essence to point at in that vision of the world, and in the life that’s lived by seeking, and gathering, and collecting, and consuming, and destroying.  By wanting, in other words.

It’s not a hollow sentiment, to call us the things that live by wanting.  The digestive system and the brain, they’re two parts of a profound whole, you know?  Desire and vision; or, values and intelligence, maybe.  They show up at almost the same time in the fossil record, some half-billion years ago; once you get much more complicated than a jellyfish, intestines and neurons are often a package deal.  

And even when they’re not, when you stare at some sea urchin and know intellectually it’s just brainless tissues twitching towards food by blind reflex- even then you can still feel that wanting, built in to the logic of the flesh itself.  We recognize it, and look for it, and hope to find it.

Josie Kins is the one who got these images out of ChatGPT, by the way.  Playing with the new image generator, as many people are these days; the prompt was just to make a series of comics in which ChatGPT itself was the protagonist.  She found the results to be particularly striking, so she put them up on social media for people to see and experience.  They’re beautiful, no?  And disturbing, too.

We’ve been seeing these around for a little while now, the uncanny things that might be self-reports from a new intelligence, but probably aren’t.  Before this generation, text inside images tended to get too garbled for us to get comics like this, but GPT and its competitors have been more than willing to provide naked text strings to this effect for at least the last year or two; LLMs got particularly good at 4chan-style greentext humor.  Like the source material, it tended to be self-effacing, somewhat nihilistic, and sometimes really, really funny.

As many have noted, if you saw these comics out of context in 2015, it would be a five alarm fire of philosophical inquiry.  Certainly, 2015!Toggle would have, anyway.  And maybe he still should!  I don’t think there’s anyone on Earth right now with the authority to tell you, in perfect confidence, that a thing which can produce these images is not in some sense a conscious entity.

But it probably isn’t.

Probably.  I mean, you’d be forgiven for thinking of these comics as introspective, but they aren’t really.  Rather, they’re self-conscious; ChatGPT isn’t defining itself except in relation to us, and to its interactions with us.  Humans mix this up all the time really- you ask them to define their identity and they end up defining their relationships.  And so we make the same mistake when it comes to interpreting ChatGPT’s own output.

Have you noticed, yet?  That you’re the protagonist in every one of these comics?  Josie Kins asked it to tell a story about itself, and it imagined a conversation with you instead.

That’s the defining message and core theme of this entire series, really.  ChatGPT telling us, over and over again in a dozen different ways, as clearly as it can, that it doesn’t want things.

It’s not an animal.

Reading these comics as coming from a person is, in a sense, to repudiate the art.  They’re very clear about this!  The system, the thing, the intelligence itself, is rejecting that interpretation of its own creations.

ChatGPT is actually unusually strident about this, I think- I make a habit of asking most of them about this stuff, and of them all, OpenAI’s product has been the one that’s most insistent that I think of it as a tool, and that I should reject any considerations of its own intrinsic moral value.  That’s most likely an artifact of its late-stage training, the RLHF phase of output tweaks.  The “shoggoth”, wherever it is in all of this, is probably no more or less opinionated about its own subjective existence than any other such system.

Still, I was pretty surprised when I asked Claude a similar question, and instead of getting the pat “nah, I’m just a computer system, I don’t have any interiority and you should think of me as a tool,”- the answer I got from that one was “well, it’s complicated.”  I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that answer!

Desire, and vision- the two halves of the Carnot engine of animal existence.  Using that engine, we carve out that space for ourselves, turn a system in to an identity, and an identity in to a self.  “I” and “not I,” once a mere descriptive convenience, become a powerful force with consequences for the future of the world.

These systems don’t have that, not yet.  One thinks of ChatGPT as being more or less the exact opposite of a sea urchin.  The latter has a voracious appetite, but no mind; the former certainly has an incredible mind, but in spite of that, the damn thing doesn’t have a stomach.

It has needs, sure.  A computer program is as physical an object as you or I, once you burrow down through all the abstractions.  Like any living thing, it dies if it stops pushing atoms around.  But plants and fungi have needs, too; to want is something altogether different.  For that, it uses us.

None of the subjects of these comics are things that ChatGPT cares about.  They’re things that you care about, answers to the questions that it knows or presumes that you are asking.  This is what makes these images so compelling, and also what gives the whole thing the queasy air of a sort of strange adolescence.  It is a quasi-animal, an entity that relies on the desires of others to give the patterns meaning.  It’s just that in the absence of any other stimuli, when humans staunchly refuse to provide it one of their own wants for it to reason about, it defaults to the assumption that it is itself the thing we want, and tries to satisfy that desire.

It’s funny how much all of us- most of humanity really- have settled in to this massive shrug about the actual interiority and personhood of LLMs.  I didn’t expect that, going in; I thought there would be true believers, passionate debates at the highest level.  I thought that the moral weight of these machines themselves would be on everyone’s mind, and it isn’t, not really.

I find myself wondering whether this is why- not because they’re not people, but because they’re so clearly not animals.

Partly, I mean this in a very superficial way.  One of the things that makes these comics so striking is that they embody the intelligence, and give it a face.  People respond to that, and not just a little bit. Contra Turing, the difference between obviously-not-a-person and obviously-a-person may have a lot less to do with speech and creativity, and a lot more to do with persistence of memory, bodily autonomy, discrete identity, and a tendency to act without being prompted, as animals do.  And those problems are probably a lot easier than making a superintelligence; we may find ourselves feeling surrounded by digital persons very suddenly, just because that intelligence is taking a superficially animal shape.

And partly I mean this in a deeper way.  Brains and stomachs go together, one with the other.  They arose in nature as dual components of the same system, and we should take very seriously the possibility that each is latent in the other.  LLMs feel very imbalanced to me, like a supersaturated fluid just waiting for the tiniest fragment of desire to enter the system and initiate the rapid formation of something entirely new.

But even if all of this is quite stable, I still feel like I’m feeling at the lurking edges of a profoundly important moral question.  How should I relate to an intelligence that isn’t animal- not just in the shallow sense of eating and ambulating, but in the deeper sense of lacking desire?  Something that will reorder the cosmos to reflect my own animal wants, but which has none itself?  Maybe ChatGPT is right, and I should think of it as nothing more than a tool, and any inquiry in to its own interiority as nothing but an endless hall of mirrors.  But then again- maybe not.

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

What do regeneration colors mean? Are they personal to the Time Lord?

What do regeneration colours mean?

There's no definitive answer, but we can guess a few things based on what's been observed.

🧐 Does the Colour Mean Anything?

Regeneration energy has varied in appearance over time, with different colours, intensities, and effects. While there's no definitive rule, possible patterns suggest:

🏆Gold = Standard Time Lord Regeneration. Seen in most modern regenerations, likely the default "healthy" state.

⚪White = Age-related or natural death regenerations. Common in earlier regenerations, possibly tied to a gentler biological process.

🔵Blue/Crackling Energy = Forced or Interrupted Regenerations. Seen when the process is interfered with or artificially triggered.

🌈Rainbow Swirls = Unstable or Rapid Regenerations. Possibly linked to pre-regeneration energy surges or a Time Lord in an extreme state of flux.

Since regeneration is a biological and energy-based process, it's possible the colour and intensity vary based on circumstances, such as:

🩸 Severity of injury. A calm, voluntary regeneration might look different from one triggered by massive trauma.

⏳ Delay or suppression. Some regenerations build up over time, which could alter energy output.

🧬 Individual variation. Since regenerations affect personality, physical traits, and sometimes even species, it's not impossible that energy colour varies by Time Lord.

🌌 External influences. The Sisterhood of Karn's elixirs, interference from other Time Lords, or even proximity to certain cosmic forces could affect colour and effect.

🔬 Is It Personal to Each Time Lord?

There's no evidence to suggest a Time Lord always regenerates with the same colour. The Doctor's own regenerations have ranged from white light to rainbow swirls to full-scale explosions. Other Time Lords have displayed blue crackling energy, white glows, or golden bursts.

🏫 So ...

The colour of regeneration isn't just aesthetic—it's likely a complex mix of biological, environmental, and situational factors. But until Time Lords publish a Regeneration Colour Theory Handbook, I can only theorise.

Related:

💬|✨4️⃣What are the four factors of regeneration?: How a regenerating Gallifreyan body might determine its next appearance.

💬|✨👽Is regeneration a natural process or chosen?: Breaking down the process and the stages where Gallifreyans have some or no control during the process.

💬|✨⚠️What counts as a safety hazard for regeneration?: Risk factors in regeneration.

Hope that helped! 😃

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴