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foone · 1 year ago

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why are printers so hated? it's simple:

computers are good at computering. they are not good at the real world.

the biggest problems in computers, the ones that have had to change the most over the time they've existed, are the parts that deal with the real world. The keyboard, the mouse, the screen. every computer needs these, but they involve interacting with the real world. that's a problem. that's why they get replaced so much.

now, printers: printers have some of the most complex real-world interaction. they need to deposit ink on paper in 2 dimensions, and that results in at least three ways it can go on right from the start. (this is why 3D printers are just 2D printers that can go wrong in another whole dimension)

scanners fall into many of the same problems printers have, but fewer people have scanners, and they're not as cost-optimized. But they are nearly as annoying.

This is also why you can make a printer better by cutting down on the number of moving elements: laser printers are better than inkjets, because they only need to move in one dimension, and their ink is a powder, not a liquid. and the best-behaved printers of all are thermal printers: no ink and the head doesn't move. That's why every receipt printer is a thermal printer, because they need that shit to work all the time so they can sell shit. And thermal is the most reliable way to do that.

But yeah, cost-optimization is also a big part of why printers are such finicky unreliable bastards: you don't want to pay much for them. Who is excited for all the printing they're gonna be doing? basically nobody. But people get forced to have a printer because they gotta print something, for school or work or the government or whatever. So they want the cheapest thing that'll work. They're not shopping on features and functionality and design, they want something that costs barely anything, and can fucking PRINT. anything else is an optional bonus.

And here's the thing: there's a fundamental limit of how much you can optimize an inkjet printer, and we got near to it in like the late 90s. Every printer since then has just been a tad smaller, a tad faster, and added some gimmicks like printing from WIFI or bluetooth instead of needing to plug in a cable.

And that's the worst place to be in, for a computer component. The "I don't care how fancy it is, just give me one that works" zone. This is why you can buy a keyboard for 20$ and a mouse for 10$ and they both work plenty fine for 90% of users. They're objectively shit compared to the ones in the 60-150$ range, but do they work? yep. So that's what people get.

Printers fell into that zone long, long ago, when people stopped getting excited about "desktop publishing". So with printers shoved into the "make them as cheap as possible" zone, they have gotten exponentially shittier. Can you cut costs by 5$ a printer by making them jam more often? good. make them only last a couple years to save a buck or two per unit? absolutely. Can you make the printer cost 10$ less and make that back on the proprietary ink cartridges? oh, they've been doing that since Billy Clinton was in office.

It's the same place floppy disks were in in about 2000. CD-burners were not yet cheap enough, USB flash drives didn't exist yet (but were coming), modems weren't fast enough yet to copy stuff over the internet, superfloppies hadn't taken over like some hoped, and memory cards were too expensive and not everyone had a drive for them. So we still needed floppy disks, but at the same time this was a technology that hadn't changed in nearly 20 years. So people were tired of paying out the nose for them... the only solution? cut corners. I have floppy disks from 1984 that read perfectly, but a shrinkwrapped box of disks from 1999 will have over half the disks failed. They cut corners on the material quality, the QA process, the cleaning cloth inside the disk, everything they could. And the disks were shit as a result.

So, printers are in that particular note of the death-spiral where they've reached the point of "no one likes or cares about this technology, but it's still required so it's gone to shit". That's why they are so annoying, so unreliable, so fucking crap.

So, here's the good news:

You can still buy a better printer, and it will work far better. Laser printers still exist, and LED printers work the same way but even cheaper. They're still more expensive than inkjets (especially if you need color), but if you have to print stuff, they're a godsend. Way more reliable.

This is not a stable equilibrium. Printers cannot limp along in this terrible state forever. You know why I brought up floppy disk there? (besides the fact I'm a giant floppy disk nerd) because floppy disks GOT REPLACED. Have you used one this decade? CD-Rs and USB drives and internet sharing came along and ate the lunch of floppy disks, so much so that it's been over a decade since any more have been made. The same will happen to (inkjet) printers, eventually. This kind of clearly-broken situation cannot hold. It'll push people to go paperless, for companies to build cheaper alternatives to take over from the inkjets, or someone will come up with a new, more reliable printer based on some new technology that's now cheap enough to use in printers. Yeah, it sucks right now, but it can't last.

So, in conclusion: Printers suck, but this is both an innate problem caused by them having to deal with so much fucking Real World, and a local minimum of reliability that we're currently stuck in. Eventually we'll get out of this valley on the graph and printers will bother people a lot less.

Random fun facts about printing of the past and their local minimums:

in the hot metal type era, not only would the whole printing process expose you to lead, the most common method of printing text was the linotype, which could go wrong in a very fun way: if the next for a line wasn't properly justified (filling out the whole row), it could "squirt", and lead would escape through gaps in the type matrix. This would result in molten lead squirting out of the machine, possibly onto the operator. Anecdotally, linotype operators would sometimes recognize each other on the street because of the telltale spots on their forearms where they had white splotches where no hair grew, because they got bad lead burns. This type of printing remained in use until the 80s.

Another fun type of now-retired printers are drum printers, a type of line printer. These work something like a typewriter or dot-matrix printer, except the elements extend across the entire width of the paper. So instead of printing a character at time by smacking it into the paper, the whole line got smacked nearly at once. The problem is that if the paper jammed and the printer continued to try to print, that line of the paper would be repeatedly struck at high speed, creating a lot of heat. This worry created the now-infamous Linux error: "lp0 on fire". This was displayed when the error signals from a parallel printer didn't make sense... and it was a real worry. A high speed printer could definitely set the paper on fire, though this was rare.

So... one thing to be grateful about current shitty inkjet printers: they are very unlikely to burn anything, especially you.

(because before they could do that they'd have to work, at least a little, first, and that's very unlikely)

#printers #my writing

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smartaidcsystem · 1 year ago

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#barcode scanner #thermal printers #Chennai

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reachingworldlive · 2 years ago

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How Thermal Temperature Scanners Are Best for Covid-19 Protection?

#General #Contactless Scanners #Coronavirus #Thermal Temperature Scanner

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posplaza · 2 years ago

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How to Choose the Right Label Printer?

Every business that deals with goods has one aspect in common – they can all benefit from effective labelling. In retail businesses, labelling can be used for labelling goods to identify products, indicate prices, print bar codes and keep track of inventory. They also help in creating the first impression of the product and brand for consumers. A good quality label helps convince consumers to purchase the product.

Labels can also be used specifically for back end processes at a distribution or ware housing facility. Especially when dealing with bulk packaged products, having informative labels makes it easier to identify items without opening extensive packaging. As a result, time and energy of the staff is saved.

The versatility of labels makes them immensely useful. A good quality label printer provides multiple benefits, helping you explore the full potential of labels. With an effective printer, you can print massive numbers of labels, utilise different materials for printing, add security measures and more. There are nearly hundreds of label printers in the market, which is why it is important to choose the right one for your business needs.

To read the full article follow the link below:

https://www.posplaza.com.au/choosing-label-printer

#printer #thermal priner #thermal printer #barcode scanner

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winxanity-ii · 2 months ago

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⌜I Love, Robot | Chapter 04 Chapter 04 | locked in⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Silence filled the hauler, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the system monitors. Rain and Kay, left to their own devices, sat quietly; Navarro remained focused on manning the controls, her fingers gliding over the panel with expert precision.

Your eyes, however, were glued to the monitor displaying the live feed from Tyler's headset. Every pixel flickered with tension as you watched the three figures standing in the narrow chamber that connected the hauler to the derelict space station.

Tyler and Bjorn, both clad in bulky space jumpsuits with oxygen masks and gloves, were preparing for the transition. The suits clung to their bodies, designed to protect them from the frigid vacuum outside.

Only Andy, with his synthetic skin, stood without such gear, his face expressionless as always, though you could sense an undercurrent of anticipation in his movements.

Tyler extended a pair of thermal gloves toward Bjorn. "Put this on," he instructed, his voice calm but firm.

Bjorn, examining the gloves with a mixture of disdain and necessity, quips, "Why? Planning to freeze my nuts off?"

"So your nuts don't freeze," Tyler retorts with a slight smirk, trying to lighten the mood despite the gravity of their situation.

Bjorn chuckled, his voice crackling through the feed, a low, mocking sound. "You think too much about my dates, Tyler," his eyes twinkling with mischief behind the mask.

"Just shut up and put the damn gloves on," Tyler muttered, turning to hand another set to Andy. "Andy, here," he added, more gently this time.

Andy took the gloves, his movements deliberate but slightly awkward as he struggled to fit them over his synthetic hands. The fabric was tight, designed for human fingers, not his more refined construction. You could see the effort it took for him to maneuver his fingers into place.

Bjorn glanced over, his lips curling into a sneer. "Hey, stop fiddling and put that shit on already," he barked, impatience lacing his tone. His words cut through the air, harsh and dismissive.

Tyler shot Bjorn a warning look. "Now, leave him alone. Andy, don't worry about him. He's an idiot," he reassured, his tone softer, almost paternal. "Hatch ahead. I'll connect," he continued, shifting focus back to the task at hand.

Bjorn, still grumbling, adjusted his mask. "It's cold as fuck in there," he muttered, rubbing his gloved hands together. "What is it?"

"A temp scanner," Tyler replied, checking a handheld device clipped to his suit. "It'll lead us to the capsules. The compression is tolerable, but there's too little oxygen to breathe."

Bjorn nodded, his eyes narrowing as he glanced around the chamber. "Andy, you're up. Show us what you're good at."

With the hatch to the station just before them, Andy stepped forward to the control panel by the door. His synthetic finger found its way to the scanner integrated into the panel. He stuck it inside, interfacing seamlessly with the station's security protocols.

The light on the scanner flickered from red to green, accompanied by the soft click of locks disengaging. The door hissed as it began to slide open, granting them entry to the station.

Tyler gave Andy an encouraging nod. "That's right, Andy. Well done."

Bjorn, couldn't help but snort, rolling his eyes. "Congrats, you're not a virgin anymore," he jeered, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Come on."

Andy, unfazed by the comment, moved forward with calculated precision, ready to perform his duties. You watched him closely, feeling a mixture of pride and apprehension.

Despite the tension and the biting remarks from Bjorn, Andy remained focused, his synthetic composure unshaken.

As the three of them boarded the derelict Romulus, the air felt heavy with anticipation and the faint hum of dormant machinery.

The station was dimly lit, its narrow corridors stretching into darkness. The flickering emergency lights cast an eerie glow, and the low hum of the station's failing systems filled the silence.

Every step echoed hollowly, a reminder of how empty and abandoned this place truly was.

They moved cautiously, navigating the winding halls. Suddenly, the artificial gravity gave out, sending them all into a momentary weightlessness.

The station's interior was now chaotic mix of floating debris—tools, chairs, crates, and other loose objects drifted aimlessly in the zero-gravity environment, casting long, eerie shadows under the dim emergency lights.

The air felt thick with disuse, each breath carrying the metallic tang of stale, recycled air.

Tyler braced himself against the wall, his grip tight and focused. Around him, wrenches and screwdrivers, once confined to toolkits, now spun lazily in mid-air, bouncing off the walls and each other in slow motion. An old chair drifted past, its legs barely brushing against Tyler's shoulder as he maneuvered to avoid it.

Bjorn, however, wasn't as lucky. He reached out to grab hold of a support beam but missed, his fingers slipping on its cold metal surface. His body drifted upward, twisting awkwardly as he collided with a floating crate. "Fuck..." he muttered, a grimace forming on his face as he felt his stomach churn from the sudden lack of gravity. "There is no gravity here. I can feel it in my stomach."

Tyler glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. "What was that?"

Andy's voice came through clearly, unbothered by the disorienting conditions. "The gravity generators. The control starts at intervals. So the whole place doesn't explode."

Tyler nodded, absorbing the information while carefully avoiding a drifting toolbox that floated between them. "We continue straight ahead, then," he directed, gesturing towards the corridor that lay ahead, partially obscured by more floating debris.

Tyler turned his head slightly toward Andy, his expression softening with concern. "Andy, are you okay?"

"Yes," Andy replied, his tone unwavering. "I have located the capsules." Andy's gaze remained fixed on the scanner in his hand, his synthetic eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "According to the scanner, the capsules should be in there," he announced, pointing toward a heavy metal door at the end of the corridor, past a cluster of slowly spinning wrenches and bolts.

Just as they continued through the corridor, the artificial gravity suddenly kicked back on with a heavy jolt. Everything that had been floating in mid-air—tools, chairs, crates—plummeted to the ground with a series of loud crashes.

Bjorn fell hard, landing awkwardly on his back with a sharp thud; the breath knocked out of him. A metal wrench narrowly missed his head, clattering noisily next to him.

"Damn it!" Bjorn cursed, pain evident in his voice as he lay sprawled on the cold, hard floor. "I think I've leathered the arsehole," he groaned, wincing as he tried to sit up. "Shit, those control launches are no joke."

Tyler, still gripping a rail tightly to keep his balance, glanced over at Bjorn with a mix of frustration and concern. "You alright?" he called out, trying to maintain focus despite the chaos around them.

Bjorn grunted in response, rubbing his lower back. "Yeah, yeah, just peachy," he muttered sarcastically, clearly irritated by the sudden drop.

Andy, who had managed to brace himself against the wall just in time, turned his attention to Bjorn. "Bjorn, are you okay?" he asked, his voice calm but with a hint of synthetic concern.

Bjorn waved him off, though the annoyance was clear in his tone. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Just keep doing what you're doing. I'll manage."

Tyler moved quickly to check the status of the station's systems. "SYSTEM STARTUP MOTHER 9000," he read aloud from the flickering console nearby, which was partially covered in debris from the gravity shift. "Thank God there is still current in the old story," he added, his tone both relieved and cautious.

Andy moved to the control panel, his fingers deftly navigating the interface, bringing the systems back online. "Watch out," he warned, his voice steady amidst the chaos. "Here comes one more purge." He gave them a moment to prepare before the gravity purged again.

They all braced themselves, grabbing onto fixtures and railings as the station's gravity generators fluctuated once more. The objects around them, previously scattered on the floor, began floating in the air once more.

Andy flipped a switch, and a low hum filled the room as the station's systems came fully back to life. Once again, all the floating objects clattered to the floor, the gravity stabilized.

"Good job, Andy," Tyler said, his voice filled with gratitude. "Let's get to those capsules and get the hell out of here."

Bjorn, still rubbing his sore back, muttered under his breath but nodded in agreement. With a determined look, they pressed onward, deeper into the station, knowing the mission was far from over.

Shortly after, the three of them reached the cryo-chamber room. The metal doors groaned open, revealing a series of pods lined up against the wall, illuminated by the dim emergency lights.

Tyler immediately moved to the control panel, his fingers flying over the keys as he checked the status of each chamber.

Bjorn stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. "Damn it! Well, let's see here," he muttered, clearly agitated.

Tyler squinted at the screen, frowning. "YEARS: 3.20," he read aloud, his tone flat.

Bjorn's head whipped around, confusion turning quickly to frustration. "Shit. What's wrong?"

Tyler's face was grim as he explained, "The capsules do not have enough fuel. There is enough for three years of hibernation."

Andy, standing close by, quickly calculated the implications. "It takes appoximately nine years to reach Yvaga," he pointed out in his usual calm, matter-of-fact tone.

Bjorn, his face twisted in irritation, threw his hands up in exasperation. "I know that. Fuck! I knew it. I fucking knew it. This shit was for nothing!"

Tyler turned to him sharply, his expression determined. "No, we're not giving up now. Yvaga is the closest system. What do you want us to do? Now shut the hell up."

Andy, still focused on the scanner in his hand, spoke up. "There seems to be a cryo-depot somewhere. There must be fuel."

Tyler nodded, his mind racing. "Navarro, I'm disconnecting the EEV. You can pick it up while we get cryo-fuel. Held," he spoke into his intercom, his voice steady despite the tension.

Navarro's voice crackled through the intercom, calm and composed, "Heard."

As the Corbelan maneuvered to pick up the ejected cryo-chambers, back on the ship, Kay suddenly rushed to the toilet, her face pale. Rain quickly moved to help her, guiding her into a nearby bunk as Kay began to retch. The noise caught your attention, but you remained at a distance, watching quietly.

In the bunk, Rain leaned closer to Kay, her voice soft and concerned. "...You're pregnant?" you overheard her whisper, her tone a mix of surprise and concern.

Kay nodded, a wide smile spreading across her face. "Yeah," she replied softly, a hint of excitement in her voice. Rain's face lit up with a supportive smile, and the two exchanged a quiet laugh.

From where you stood, you caught Kay's eye for a moment. Her smile faltered slightly, an awkward tension settling in the air between you. You returned a small nod, trying to convey understanding, but Kay quickly looked away, turning her focus back to Rain with a nervous giggle.

Out of everyone in Rain's old friend group, Kay had always been the most distant with you, a fact that had always puzzled you. You never quite understood why, but it had always left a lingering discomfort in your interactions with her.

Deciding to give them space, you turned your attention back to the three men on the station, tuning into their ongoing conversation through the intercom.

Bjorn's gruff voice came through first, laced with skepticism. "What is all that military piss for?" he asked, glaring at Tyler.

"It's effective."

Bjorn snorted derisively, unconvinced. "Is it?"

Tyler's lips twitched into a half-smile. "And cool."

Bjorn rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "You sound dumb," he shot back, his tone dripping with disdain.

As they continued walking, Bjorn, distracted by his annoyance, nearly missed a deep hole in the floor. He stumbled, teetering dangerously on the edge.

Without hesitation, Andy reached out and grabbed Bjorn's arm, pulling him back just in time.

Despite being saved from a potentially deadly fall, Bjorn's anger flared even hotter. He stormed up to Andy, getting uncomfortably close to his face, his eyes burning with a mix of rage and frustration. He jabbed a finger into Andy's chest, his voice low and menacing. "What's your fucking problem, clown?" he snarled, glaring at Andy with open hostility.

Andy, ever calm, replied, "Sorry," his voice soft, almost apologetic despite the aggressive confrontation.

Tyler quickly intervened. "Relax, guys," he said, trying to keep the peace.

But Bjorn wasn't done. He shoved Andy harder, his anger barely contained. "Next time I'll smash you in," he threatened, his voice dripping with contempt. He then turned to Tyler, his expression dark and demanding. "Keep that fucking piece of Synth-trash away from me."

Tyler nodded slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he glanced between the two of them. He knew they needed to keep moving, but the tension was clearly getting to everyone. "Let's just focus on finding that fuel," he said, trying to steer the conversation back to the mission at hand. "Navarro, airlock 5-B is our exit once we find the cryogenic fuel."

Your teeth gritted in your mouth as you listened to everything unfolding over the hauler's intercom. The hostility in Bjorn's voice, the constant antagonism—it made your skin crawl.

You tried to focus on the task at hand, tinkering with the Reboot Key, but it was hard to ignore the rising tension.

Navarro took a moment to walk over to you, leaning against the console with a curious glance at your tinkering. "What are you working on there?" she asked, her voice carrying a casual interest.

You shrugged slightly, trying to keep your focus on the task at hand. "Just making sure I'm ready for anything," you replied, not wanting to delve too deeply into the details.

Navarro nodded, her eyes trailing back to the screen momentarily. "It's good to be prepared," she said thoughtfully. After a pause, she added, "Hey, I'm sorry about Bjorn's actions earlier. He can be... intense, but he's got his reasons."

Overhearing this, Rain snorted. "Yeah, right," she muttered, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I'll bite. What's his deal with Andy? Why is he so angry with him?" she asked, her gaze shifting between Navarro and the monitor displaying the men's location.

Navarro glanced over at Rain, her expression tight with a mix of sympathy and understanding. "Because of the thing with his mother a cycle ago," she said softly.

Rain furrowed her brows, clearly puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Kay, still pale but feeling a bit better, spoke up softly from her spot in the back. "There was a gas leak in the mines. The synthetic supervisor overhead the entire operation gave the order to close them while Bjorn's mother was down there."

"But... Synthetics—they cannot harm people," Rain countered, her voice wavering slightly as she tried to make sense of the story.

"Well, it sacrificed three miners to save half a dozen."

Rain's face twisted in a grimace. "How gruesome," she muttered under her breath. She saw Kay get up suddenly and rush to the back, clearly feeling unwell again.

Rain stood to follow, concern etched across her features, while you stayed seated, still fidgeting with the tiny components in your hands, counting down the minutes until this whole ordeal could be over.

A chill ran down your spine as you listened to Kay's explanation, triggering a long-buried memory from one of your past hacking jobs.

You recalled retrieving files that exposed a chilling directive: in moments of crisis, Weyland's synthetics were programmed to prioritize the company's assets over human lives, all under the guise of logical probability.

Even back then, the discovery had left you feeling sick, a stark reminder of the company's cold, calculating nature.

While you could understand why Bjorn harbored such deep hatred for synthetics, knowing this didn't change your opinion of him. He was still an asshole, his anger misdirected at those who were just following their programming—much like the workers following orders.

If anything, you thought, his anger should be aimed at the Weyland officials who made those ruthless directives, not at every synthetic he came across. His blind rage only perpetuated the cycle of resentment and pain, when the true culprits remained hidden in their ivory towers, untouched by the consequences of their decisions.

You tightened your grip on the Reboot Key, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. The sooner they found that cryo-fuel and got out of there, the better.

"Welcome to the space station Renaissance. Weyland-Yutani's Center for Research and Development whose efforts are to improve the human role in space."

Bjorn's response to the artificial voice crackled through the intercom, his tone tinged with discomfort. "This place gives me goosebumps," he muttered, a shiver running through his voice.

Andy, ever the peacemaker, tried to inject some humor into the situation. "Have you heard the one about the bowler who only has one ball? It always takes cones. Did you get it?" he offered, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Please turn yourself off," Bjorn snapped back, irritation clear in his voice.

"You said you were nervous, so I tried—"

"You know what? I'm looking forward to getting into a capsule and never seeing your ass again," Bjorn interrupted sharply, his voice harsh and cutting.

"See you at Yvaga then."

"You are not going to Yvaga." You were taken aback by Bjorn's revelation.

Tyler's voice intervened, a note of warning in his tone. "Bjorn, stop."

But Bjorn was relentless. Turning to face Andy with a manic grin, he sneered, "Didn't Rain tell you? The system is anti-Weyland-Yutani, so fake people are prohibited."

Andy's reply was measured, his voice steady despite the insult. "I prefer the term 'artificial person.'"

You felt a surge of confusion and concern, unable to believe Bjorn's claim that Andy wouldn't be allowed into Yvaga. It didn't make sense; why would they exclude Andy?

As you processed Bjorn's words, your thoughts were abruptly pulled back to just a few hours earlier, which now seemed to carry even more weight given the current tension.

🇫‌🇱‌🇦‌🇸‌🇭‌🇧‌🇦‌��‌🇰‌:

The next half an hour in the room felt like a slow crawl through tension, thick enough to cut with a knife. You stood by the door with Andy at your side, ready to leave at any moment. Across the room, Rain and Tyler spoke in hushed tones, their conversation drowned out by the hum of the machinery around you.

Every now and then, Rain would glance your way, her expression a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

You straightened up as Rain finally pulled away from Tyler and started walking toward you. For a brief moment, you felt a flicker of hope—maybe she’d seen the flaws in this whole plan, the danger and the reckless gamble it represented. But instead of heading for the door, she stopped in front of you, her eyes searching yours.

"Can I talk to you privately?" she asked softly. Her tone wasn't commanding but pleading, and despite the frustration and worry bubbling inside you, you gave in.

With a small nod, you followed her down to the transport area, Andy trailing just a step behind. The enclosed space below was quieter, the hum of the engines muted but still present—a constant reminder of the colony around you.

"I'm not sure about any of this, Rain," you started, the words tumbling out in a rush, but she cut you off gently.

"I know," she said, her voice soft but steady. "But what if they're right? What if we can actually get out of here?" Her question hung in the air between you—a heavy, unspoken challenge.

You fell silent, unable to meet her gaze for a moment. Because deep down, you knew she was right. There was no telling if what Tyler and his group had found would actually be the escape they all needed.

But what if it was?

What if this was the chance to finally leave this hellhole behind, to find freedom and a future that wasn’t dictated by Weyland-Yutani's greed?

You looked into Rain's hopeful eyes, and your mind spun with images of a possible future if you walked away now—Rain wasting away, trapped here like so many others you had cared for.

You couldn't subject her to that. Not when there was a chance, however slim, to change it.

A loud, harsh sigh escaped your lips as you turned, rubbing a hand down your face. The weight of your decision pressed down on you, but there wasn’t much choice, not really. "Fine. Fine... fine."

Rain let out a small, happy shriek, throwing herself into your arms. She wrapped you up in her lithe embrace, her joy so palpable it was almost infectious. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she repeated, her voice a breathless rush of gratitude.

You couldn't help but smile, hugging her back, though the smile quickly faded into a serious line as you pulled away. "Okay, but how exactly is this supposed to go down?"

Rain's excitement didn't falter as she launched into an explanation, her words tumbling over one another in her eagerness. "Tyler and Navarro think there are at least half a dozen, maybe even ten, cryo-pods on board the ship, judging by the size of the aircraft. The plan is simple: Andy helps us gain access to the ship, then he, Tyler, and Bjorn find the pods, release them, and Navarro grabs them with the hauler. Then, bam! The six of us float peacefully away in cryo-sleep for the next nine years until we reach Yvaga."

You listened, taking it all in. Sure, it sounded simple enough on the surface. But your mind couldn’t help conjuring up all the setbacks and issues that could arise—the things that could make the entire mission fall apart.

But instead of voicing your doubts, you decided to give it a chance. Rain's hope was too bright, too desperate to extinguish with your own pessimism.

Still, one concern gnawed at you—something that hadn't been addressed. "What about Andy?"

Rain blinked, taken aback for a moment by your question. But then she answered, her voice steady, "Since Andy is synthetic, he won't need to be placed in a cryo-pod. He'll oversee everything; make sure we don't run into any issues during the journey."

You nodded slowly, her reasoning making sense.

Andy didn't need sleep; he didn't need to worry about the passage of time in the same way you all did.

And if there was anyone you trusted to watch over things, it was him.

Looking over Rain's shoulder, your eyes met Andy's. He stood there, his synthetic gaze soft, head tilted slightly as if saying without words, 'What's best for Rain.'

A small smile crept onto your lips at the sight of him. Without a second thought, you reached out a hand, and he immediately came over, his grip firm yet gentle.

You pulled him into a small hug, and together, you and Andy surrounded Rain, her small frame nestled between the two of you. You held on tight, feeling the warmth of Rain’s body against yours and the steady, reassuring presence of Andy beside you.

Yes, you thought, holding them both close, What's best for Rain.

Snapping back to the present, you shook your head slightly, memory burning away like charred earth now that you knew the truth.

Feeling a mix of anger and urgency, you rushed over to the monitor, your hands trembling slightly as you watched Bjorn continue his verbal assault. His words cut through the tense air, exacerbating the frustration building up inside you.

Bjorn's voice was harsh, filled with disdain as he continued to antagonize Andy. "Andy, listen. Rain can go to jail if she takes you. And if you stay at Jackson, you will be eventually scrapped by the company. Are you in? I need you on board to protect the capsules. To protect Y/N's capsule, remember? She's coming too..."

Andy, his voice steady yet tinged with uncertainty, replied, "But when we get there..."

Bjorn interrupted with a cold sneer, "Scrap. Farewell and bon voyage."

Tyler, looking exasperated and visibly stressed, rubbed his face. "Are you done?" he interjected, his tone weary.

Bjorn shrugged with a cackle, "I'm just saying it like it is."

Andy's response came softly, reflecting his unwavering loyalty, "It's okay. If it's what's best for Rain, it's what's best for me."

As Bjorn clapped Andy hard on the shoulder, walking past him with a patronizing air, he said, "You're a nice guy, Andy. We will miss you. And don't worry, I'll look out for Y/N, for you, yeah?"

You stood there, watching the scene unfold on the monitor, your emotions a whirlwind of frustration and concern.

Unable to contain the growing sense of betrayal, you turned to stare at Rain. Your steps toward her were tentative, each one heavier than the last as you noticed her pale face, her eyes watering slightly as her mouth opened and closed without forming words.

"Rain..." you could only whisper softly, the disappointment heavy in your voice.

"Y/N... I... I-I can explain, please let me explain—"

"No," you cut her off sharply, turning away and rubbing your eyes with your finger to hide the tears welling up in them. "I don't want to hear it, please just stop. I-I—" You had to take a shuddering breath, stopping just a foot before her, "Just... it doesn't matter. Not right now."

With that, you turned your back to her completely, your heart breaking further as you caught the devastated look on Andy's face from the corner of your eye. He seemed clueless, as if unsure what Bjorn’s words truly meant.

Navarro's voice cut through the tense air, disbelief evident in her tone as she asked Rain, "Y/N didn't know??"

Your head snapped back, eyes blazing with anger and hurt. "Me?" you spat bitterly, "Forget about me knowing; why didn't Andy know?"

Your question was directed sharply at Rain, demanding an answer.

Rain ran a hand through her hair, her hands trembling. "He... I didn't bother to tell him," she finally said, looking off to the side, her voice filled with guilt.

Before you could respond to Rain's admission, Kay stood up with a nasty snarl curling her lips. "Rain doesn't have to feel bad about anything. Why should she risk her life for Andy? He's not even alive! It's not gonna matter to him whether he's kept here rotting on this floating rock or scrapped for spare pieces! He. Is. Not. Real!" Her voice escalated with each word, breathing coming out in sharp pants as she finished her long-winded spat.

The hauler was plunged into complete silence following her outburst.

You turned to look at Rain, hoping she would say something—anything—to defend the situation or at least to soften the harshness of Kay's words. But Rain just looked off to the side, her expression unreadable, her silence more telling than any words could have been.

You watched as all three women—Rain, Kay, and Navarro—stood next to one another, their proximity seeming to wordlessly state their solidarity on the issue.

Inside, you could feel the seething anger and fury burning, but you knew lashing out wouldn't help. "Fine," you said curtly, your voice calm but ice-cold. "Andy and I will finish helping you all with this mission, but after it's complete, you don't have to worry yourselves with figuring out what to do with him..."

Rain's face crumbled in heartbreak, her eyes widening as she already knew where you were going with this. "Y/N, please don't. I need—"

"Because he and I will be returning to Jackson Star," you interrupted, turning your back on the group, done with the entire conversation.

As you walked back towards the monitor, Kay let out a sharp, scornful laugh. "I'm not sure what Bjorn sees in you when you're clearly a synth-lover. Rather stay behind and die on this dying planet with a machine instead of heading into a new beginning with your remaining family."

You only spared the girl an uncaring, bored look over your shoulder. "I don't care. He's family, and you don't leave family behind."

With that, you walked back into the captain’s bridge, plopping yourself back next to the monitor, shutting out the bitter words and focusing on what truly mattered—completing the mission and safeguarding Andy.

A/N: heheh hopes you guys enjoyed the update. if a few lines don't match from the movie, know i changed a few things up to fit the fic. other than that: THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR SUPPORTING THIS! The engagement i've been recieveing is so amazing, still cant get over that people want/like to read the trash my mind spit out😩 yall make me wanna write everyday frfr ❤️❤️ see you next update...

Tag List: @dreamsarenicer sadslasher13 ravenswife

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fanfoolishness · 7 months ago

Text

Patching Up

After the events of The Return, Crosshair realizes Batcher's in need of patching up. It turns out she's not the only one.

Spoilers for 3x05 The Return and 2x12 The Outpost, Crosshair, Batcher, and Hunter, angst and family feels. <3 2770 words. Illustrated!

It was well before sunrise when the Remora arrived back to Pabu. Crosshair shook off the nap he’d settled into and got to his feet for landing, tucking his helmet beneath his arm. On the bunk across the way, Omega and Batcher lay snoring, curled up together. He smiled faintly at the sight.

“Come on, kid,” Wrecker said softly, scooping Omega into his arms. She yawned, wrapping her arms around his neck, but still kept her eyes firmly squeezed shut. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Crosshair watched them go. He had the sense that this was something that had happened many times before; Omega small and sleepy, Wrecker there to carry her to bed. It had looked like such a familiar action for them both. Something in him panged at the thought.

There was a small boof noise beside him. He glanced down in time to see Batcher nudge his hand with her muzzle, wagging her tiny tail as she eased into a vast stretch. He patted her nose obligingly. It was the least he could do.

He passed Hunter and Echo, deep in conversation still in the cockpit, and made his way back out into the predawn air beneath the glinting stars and swinging moon. He took a deep breath of the fresh ocean breeze. He was still getting used to it, the taste and smell of the clean sea air so different from Tantiss’ stale recycled scent. His hand flinched, and he jammed his hand against his leg, willing it to still.

He clicked under his tongue for Batcher, but she didn’t attend. He turned around. She was sitting on the ground several feet away in an awkward pose, chewing aggressively at one of her front paws. He clicked his tongue again, and she came this time, clearly limping.

“What have you gotten into?” Crosshair asked, concerned. She sat down beside him, then immediately turned to lick at her other front paw. “Uh-uh,” he said firmly, and she stopped to give him a guilty look.

He sighed under his breath, then made up his mind. “Stay here.” He headed back into the ship, interrupting Echo and Hunter and their poring over the data retrieved from the datapad. “I need a medpac. I think the hound is wounded. Nothing serious, but I can check her over.”

Echo nodded. “Of course. Back near the bunks, third crate.”

“AZI might be able to take a look at her, too,” said Hunter. “You could ask him --”

“The medpac will do,” said Crosshair shortly. I’m sure AZI could look at your hand for you… No. He didn’t need the droid for this.

Crosshair followed Echo’s instructions, collecting a kit with basic supplies. He left out the diagnostic scanner -- he doubted it had been calibrated to lurca hounds -- but took the bandage materials, hyposprays and splints, wondering if he would need to make a human wrist splint work for the hound’s blocky leg.

He headed back outside… and the damn hound was gone.

Of course. Try to help the creature, and it had taken off. He scanned the mesa for movement beneath the stars and the solar lamps, eyes flicking across the landscape, but came up short; only a few moon-yos scampered across the ground, their dark shadows clear in the dim light. He put his helmet on, toggling on thermal vision. Ah. A chunky heat signature was nudging open the gate at the little house they’d been taking meals at. She was nothing if not predictable.

He caught up with her in a few minutes, closing the gate quietly behind him. Batcher was laying down, curled up defensively, chewing at her feet again with an appalling licking sound. He set down his helmet on the table and slowly approached.

“Stop that,” said Crosshair evenly. “You’ll only make it worse.” He knelt beside her with the medical supplies and she hunkered into herself, giving him a wary expression. He gave her a skeptical look, then averted his gaze until she relaxed again. “Don’t bite me.”

She licked his face instead, and he scrubbed off the saliva vigorously with his gloved hand. “No.” She sat there panting, looking perfectly pleased with herself. He reached for the closest paw, tugging it out from beneath her. She tensed, but let him turn her paw over.

Even in the starlight and lamplight, it was easy to see the issue; while her paws didn’t seem to be swollen and nothing felt broken, her pads were scraped raw, swollen and dotted with specks of beading blood. Carefully he checked them all. The front left was the worst, with a thick slice of skin hanging torn from the edge of the pad, but all were affected in some way. The sight pained him.

“The ice,” he murmured. “You weren’t made for it.” She whined, laying down and pulling her paw away from him. Of course a beast meant to survive the jungles around Tantiss wouldn’t have the protection against the cold needed for Barton IV.

He and Mayday hadn’t, either.

The bitter wind shearing his exposed face, fingers locked and frozen around the Firepuncher, desperately dragging Mayday closer to keep him warm --

Crosshair shook the memory off and took a packet of numbing gel out of the medpac, rubbing it cautiously on the paw with the lacerated pad. She tolerated it surprisingly well. He wasn’t sure how she’d take the next step, though.

He pulled out the sterilization spray canister and affixed it to the hypospray, but hesitated before using it. He knew from experience in the field that it stung like a wyyyschokk’s bite, even if it was effective. He had reluctantly accepted that Batcher liked him -- he couldn’t fathom why -- but he was skeptical of her ability to not bite him while using it.

He sighed. Omega talked to the hound constantly, and she did seem to understand much of what Omega said to her. Perhaps it was worth a try. Might distract the beast, anyway.

“Hold still. This’ll sting, but it helps.” Batcher let him take her paw in his hands, but jerked it away as the mist settled onto the torn surface of the pad. Crosshair rolled his eyes. “What did I just say? The wounds need cleaning. I know it stings, but it’s temporary.” He tried to take her paw again, and she let him do it, though her beady eyes stared warily at him.

“There,” he said, spraying the paw. This time she let him hold it under the full duration of the spray, though she anxiously licked his face several times. He blinked, but kept going until he had treated all four paws, the saliva drying sticky on his face. “Good.” She wagged her tail.

He reached for the bandages, but frowned. They were all pre-cut, in shapes that wouldn’t fit the irregularities of Batcher’s huge paws. He rummaged around in the medpac, coming out with a sealant spray instead.

“We should have checked your feet after the mission,” Crosshair muttered to the hound, taking up one of her back paws and applying a thin layer of sealant. She trembled but let him do it.

He thought of the time Hunter had hidden a poisonous bite on some backwater world in the midst of one of their first field missions, and had nearly passed out in a field of battle droids before Tech had been able to render emergency first aid. They’d yelled at him for ten minutes solid after the battle, furious and scared both. His mouth quirked to one side at the memory, the squabbling, the relief.

“Feeling better?”

She looked up at him, whimpering.

“Not yet? Hm.” He reached for her next paw, shaking his head. “That ice… It’s brutal.”

She woofed softly, almost in agreement, as he worked on her foot. “At least it wasn’t a blizzard,” he said. He went very still except for his hand, which trembled against her paw. “Mayday never had a chance.”

Batcher rumbled, rolling away from him onto her back, scratching herself on the patio floor. She rolled back up to her side and sniffed the air, looking alert and attentive, before nudging his arm with the great crest on her head.

“He saved my life, you know.” He finished with the second back paw, moving to the less severely affected front paw. The words dripped out of him, slow and difficult to speak but just as difficult to stop, now that he’d started. “I stepped on a pressure mine. I’d have been killed. He could have gone on without me.” He paused. It was suddenly hard to breathe, despite the clean ocean air surrounding them. He scanned the sky above him, making out the lightening of the coming dawn.

What unit were you with? A simple question. One he’d heard regs ask each other a thousand times. It was the first time one had ever asked him.

It doesn’t matter. (Except it did. It always had.)

Humor me. I could use the distraction.

Clone Force 99. He’d been frozen, not with the cold, not even with the threat of certain death. Answering the question had been somehow more difficult than standing perfectly still.

What happened to them?

They’re… gone. It had felt like a lie even as he said it. Were they gone?

Was he?

Crosshair shivered, coming back to himself. “It never occurred to him to leave a man behind. Even though I told him I’d leave him in a heartbeat.” He reached out, scratching Batcher on the spot on her neck she liked. She leaned into it, tail wagging furiously. Short spiky blue-gray hair clung to his glove, poking uncomfortably in spots through the fabric, but he only scratched harder.

He finished the third paw. “Almost done. Worst for last.” She wiggled away, panting, but he fixed her with a sharp look. “Give it.” He took the last paw, the one with the deep tear, and hoped the numbing gel had done its work. He pulled out a vial of tissue glue. Batcher sniffed it and growled. “It’s this or a bandage. Trust me, you’ll prefer this.”

He carefully daubed the glue at the edges of the torn pad, hoping it would take. She’d be less irritated if the torn pad could cover the wound, and there was a chance it could reattach and heal more quickly that way. He wished they’d found it earlier; the edges of the pad were extra dry, and he wasn’t sure if they were still vital or not.

Well, he’d have to keep checking it. This would do for now.

Batcher sat quietly, only fidgeting a little. Around them, the sky continued lightening, hints of color -- gold and orange -- starting up on the horizon. Birds began to stir. Focused on the wound, Crosshair found himself talking again.

“We were trapped in an avalanche,” he murmured. “Mayday shoved me out of the way… saved me again. I tried to save him.”

He’d tried. Oh, how he’d tried. For a moment the gentle cool air of Pabu was a raging blizzard, the gold-edged sky a flare of blue-white mist. The chill sank into his bones, and he shivered again, trying to hold her paw steady. Even now he could only half-remember the terrible journey back to the outpost, the day and night of vicious, unending cold, Mayday heavy and wounded against him. His breath came too fast, his chest searing.

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “I didn’t.” He hung his head, dropping the hound’s patched-up paw, and rested his hand on her shoulder.

His neck prickled. It’s about knowing when you’ve got eyes on you. His shoulders slumped, and without turning around, he raised his voice. “How long have you been there?”

Hunter’s voice, expected, familiar. Of course. “... a few minutes.”

“Still spying on me?” Crosshair asked, but without any real venom. He didn’t have it in him, not after the fight with the ice wyrm, not after their talk earlier. He heard the gate open behind him, and Hunter’s quiet footsteps approached closer until his brother sat down beside him.

“Not intentionally,” said Hunter, shrugging. “Echo will be heading out soon. Figured I’d come back here to get some sleep.” He nodded to the hound, stretching out his hand. “Everything all right?” Batcher sniffed his hand, then licked it enthusiastically. Hunter scratched her chin.

“The hound should be fine,” Crosshair said. “Hurt her paws on the ice.”

“Omega will be glad you fixed her up,” Hunter said. “You and Tech were always handiest with the medpacs.”

Crosshair sniffed. “Except Tech actually knew what he was doing.” They both fell quiet. Tech always knew what he was doing. Until --

He only knew the barest details of what happened. He still wasn’t sure he would ever be able to ask for more, not when every mention of his brother still made his gut clench. The birdsong swelled around them as the sky blushed gold, and he and Hunter sat with the silence, with the missing space.

The quiet stretched, weighing on both of them. Crosshair knew he could say nothing. Could pretend Hunter hadn’t snuck up on him, could assume he hadn’t heard a thing about what he’d muttered to the hound, could get up and go inside and grab some sleep. But he had to know.

“What did you hear?” Crosshair asked quietly, looking down at his hands, at the tremor starting. He slid his right hand behind him, where Hunter couldn’t see.

Hunter looked away. He hadn’t seen. Had he? “Back at the outpost, I saw you with those helmets. I wondered. This Mayday… was he one of them?”

“Commander Mayday,” Crosshair said automatically. It was important to say it.

“You lost him.” It wasn’t a question. Crosshair braced for it, the look of judgment, the disapproval. But Hunter turned his gaze back to him, his dark eyes merely thoughtful.

“It didn’t have to be that way.” It was too painful to explain the cruelty of it all to Hunter, the guarded crates, the men’s patched armor, their loyalty discarded like another broken piece of equipment, the hiss of “clone.” He didn’t try. He just reached out and petted Batcher again, his hand shaking against her fur. He hoped Hunter wouldn’t notice. “He was a good soldier. I tried to --” He let out a long breath, ducking his head. “I did everything I could. The lieutenant could have helped him. But he wasn’t worth the resources.” Hatred burned the back of his throat with the word.

Hunter nodded, reaching up to clasp his shoulder. Crosshair closed his eyes, the weight of his brother’s hand on his shoulder both utterly alien, and yet as natural as breathing. He leaned into it, and Hunter’s hand was steady, solid, trusting.

For a moment, it felt like the old days.

He looked back at Hunter, and his brother’s face softened, a flicker of sadness shifting through his eyes like a passing shadow. “I know this isn’t easy. Talking’s not --”

“My strong suit?” Crosshair cracked, managing a short huff of a laugh. “Mhm.” It had come easier than he’d thought it would, though. Something in his chest seemed to have loosened, like he could breathe more freely.

Hunter chuckled. “Right. Not always mine, either. But hey. We managed not to kill each other out there.”

“True.”

He dropped his hand from Crosshair’s shoulder, reaching out and petting Batcher, who had curled up and falling asleep. She kicked her foot contentedly as he scratched. His voice was rough. “I wish things had been different. For Commander Mayday. For all of us.”

Crosshair nodded slowly. There were too many things to count -- Tantiss, Tech, Barton IV. Further back, Desix, Kamino, Bracca, Kaller. He could take none of it back.

The only path remaining was forward.

Crosshair clambered to his feet, reaching down and giving Hunter a hand. Hunter took it without a beat, letting himself be helped up.

“Come on,” Crosshair said, squinting into the dawn. “It’s late.”

“Early.”

“Whatever.”

Hunter laughed. “All right then. Coming?” he asked the hound. Batcher rolled up to her feet, frisking around them, no sign now of a limp. “Looks like you did good work.”

Crosshair watched her prance, painless and happy. “Just doing my part,” he said. She nuzzled his hand, then bounded toward the building, sitting patiently by the door. He crossed the yard to join her, passing Hunter.

“Crosshair?”

“Yes?”

“It’s good to have you back.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, but more warmly than usual. The door opened for him, and Crosshair stepped inside, a half-smile tugging at his face.

It was good to be back.

#the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch #tbb fanfiction #crosshair tbb #crosshair the bad batch #the bad batch crosshair #tbb crosshair #tbb hunter #the bad batch hunter #hunter the bad batch #hunter tbb #tbb batcher #batcher tbb #the bad batch batcher #batcher #crosshair #hunter #my batcher fic

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breach-doll · 1 month ago

Note

is your equipment even well-maintained? what is that lasrifle? really, a yokozaku? back when i was a door-kicker i would not be caught dead with that shit -- you know those are not waterproof, yeah? actually, never mind, it will not matter too much because any OHM (oppositional humanoid machine) with a djinn-tech scanner will see your thermals through the wall with that half-shredded stealth plating. where did they even ship you in from, dolly?

this one regrets to inform you it’s a disposable unit!

d-series breaching units by HIVETEK are typically mass produced and cheaply armed, and are projected to cease functionality after approximately 12.26 engagements. this of course has the benefit of making it an affordable option for clients on a budget.

this one has been fortunate to be assigned to a unit with a Minovsky interdiction field; the Minovsky particles conveniently block imaging and communications attempts. of course once the field is activated, all OHMs are aware of its presence, but by that point there are so many others like it nearby that it tends to be too late for effective countermeasure in CQC.

this one is very proud to improve operational cost-effectiveness by preparing the way for more expensive units!

#robotposting #robot girl #empty spaces

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coldgoldlazarus · 5 months ago

Text

Okay, mostly done screeching in excitement, now it's analysis time.

First point: That purple blast of the turret getting taken out looks great.

Looks like we're opening hot, a lot like Corruption's beginning. Hopefully won't be quite as protracted as the Norion battle, though, lol.

Also, I've seen some jokes already about how this section will end with Samus getting depowered like the openings of Prime and Echoes, but given how barebones her arsenal seems to be here, (missiles and morph ball, which sometimes she just starts with and keeps, maybe bombs too) I don't expect that to happen.

The HUD and helmet edges are a lot more dialed back this time, pushed as far into the corners as they can go. Probably better for visibility this way, but I am gonna miss the more wraparound feel of the previous setup, with the missile count and hazard meter along the sides. But this isn't a bad look by any means, and we still have a fair few items here.

A & B: My bet is this is the replacement for the old hazard meter. In addition to keeping it out of the way, putting it right next to the motion tracker is a good move. I may actually remember to use that more this way.

C: Health bar is obvious, of course, but I really like the move of tucking it away into the notch on the top of the Echoes/Corruption/Beyond(!) helmet visor. The lines around it suggest an empty row above, undoubtedly for the energy tank pips once those are picked up.

D & E: Minimap is present as usual, not really much to say there, but I love the addition of a compass direction scroll beneath it, which should be helpful for putting places in context of the broader map. (Tallon IV's elevator label system, anyone?)

F: Missile count has been shunted down from the side to the bottom corner. I'm interested to see if it will grow upward, or just stay in its present spot and scale accordingly, as you collect more expansions.

G: This is the one everyone's already pointed out, but it seems that we won't have a visor OR beam swap readout.

Scan Visor is still an option as shown in the next bit, but based on the lack of an indicator in the hud, it's probably just going to be a toggle between that and combat, without anything else like X-Ray or Thermal or Echo or what have you. (Or it could be that that would only get added to the HUD after picking up a third visor, but I won't hold my breath for it.) Kinda disappointing to deemphasize one of the cool new mechanics the Prime subseries brought to the table, on one hand, but I'm still grateful to have the Scanner, and the extra ones always did struggle a bit to see much use.

Similarly, a bit disappointed this means we're probably looking at a stacking beam like in Corruption and the 2D games, (unless of course beam swapping is still there and just being left off the HUD until relevant for the sake of cleanliness #copium) but not entirely surprising; I'll live.

But what is interesting is what's there instead. The D-Pad seems to be tied to non-Beam weapons or tools instead, with the missile launcher as the only one available at present. I'm really curious to see what the other items will be; I imagine this is going to be Prime 4's unique spin on things. I saw someone suggest affinity weapons like in Hunters, but given those all function like Beams, it feels weird to me to set them against Missiles instead, ammunition requirements notwithstanding. I'm not going to rule those out, of course, but I could see this being something completely different entirely.

Again, I am very glad to see the Scan Visor is still here at least. Even better is that it uses the full-body highlighting of objects like Echoes and Corruption instead of Prime 1's icons. Pretty minimalistic layout, all told; I like that the scanning bar is a ring now. And it doesn't reflect Samus's face by default like in Corruption, which makes sense since we're not liable to have the same kind of mutation shenaniganry happening here.

I forgot to snag a screencap of this bit on my computer, so forgive the lower quality, but this scene is interesting for a few reasons.

The Pirates' breaching charges letting them into this room just as Samus passes through a gap in the wall overhead is a nice touch, and also remniscent of some sequences from early on in Corruption.

The Federation guys in here seem to be wheeling away someone or something on a stretcher in a hurry. That could be important.

Energy tank up in the rail section, but blocked by a box. Are we just going to bomb through to get it right away, or will we drop down into the room, and have to come back from the other direction to pick it up? (Please be the other direction)

Samus looking spiffy here, even at a distance. And as some have pointed out, looks like she's walking out of a portal instead of a door, pointing to either more dimension-hopping shenanigans like in Echoes, or possibly the time travel elements I recall hearing Tanabe wanted to play with at some point. (This plus the black hole look of the logo makes me think this could be more likely.)

Whatever the nature of the portal, though, the interesting thing to me is the sort of circular structure in the rock around it, suggesting a doorframe almost. A lot of the portals on Aether seemed to actively cut into the environment at random, the rock carved out in perfect spheres with fucked-up edges, and interrupting the pre-existing architecture or geology. In contrast, this looks like it was put here on purpose, implying a more controlled creation. Potentially really fascinating implications in that.

I also kinda wonder if these portals will be replacing elevators as a way to get between regions.

Ignoring the big numbers in the middle, (though they do kinda mess with my prediction that Prime 4 was going to be a 2024 holiday title to avoid getting eaten by Switch 2's inevitable 3D Mario launch title,) a couple things stand out to me here.

Giant tree in the background is giant, and I love it for that. Also looks like it's not the only giant tree here, even if still probably the biggest. I hope we get to go there later.

But in addition, we have a bridge in the middle distance, and a tunnel opening in the foreground. I will eat my hat if we don't get to cross that bridge, and my bet is that they're going to pull a similar trick here as with Skytown, letting low-poly versions of other "rooms" be visible from the current one, but dividing them with interior sections for optimization reasons, allowing for amazing landscapes of all traversible terrain. I loved that there, it looks great here, I can't wait to go explore all this myself next year.

#not a reblog #metroid #metroid prime 4 #metroid prime 4 beyond #metroid prime beyond #HOW COOL IS IT TO HAVE AN ACTUAL TITLE NOW #AAAAAAAAA

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rotworld · 22 days ago

Text

16: Trust Fall

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

trapped on a remote outpost, you send distress signals into the void while waiting for salvation. just when you've nearly lost all hope, it arrives--with blood and death.

->warhammer 40k. original drukhari character/reader. explicit; contains dub-con, implied non-con, conditioning, mindbreak, sadism, unhealthy d/s dynamic, implied captivity.

“This is Outpost Urania One-Five-Oh, requesting immediate assistance. I repeat, this is Outpost Urania One-Five-Oh, requesting immediate assistance.”

The cogitator is dying. It spits sparks, internal cooling systems whirring loudly. The metal casing thrums blisteringly hot. Beneath cracked glass screens, monochrome green displays flicker with warnings and error messages. You have to keep jostling the tangle of thick cables running along the floor and manually resetting the broadcast settings. Toggle “distress signal.” Select “priority - high.” Crank the range knob, again, to make sure the signal reaches orbit, then try to keep your voice firm and steady until it all goes dark and you have to start over.

“This is Outpost Urania One-Five-Oh, requesting immediate assistance,” you say. You order a scan, watching waveforms inch slowly across a rudimentary map of the system. “Situation dire. Life support systems failing. Unknown fatalities. Requesting immediate assistance—”

Your voice cracks and you press your hand over your mouth, muffling a sob. You inhale shakily. Exhale, fighting a whimper. You can do this. You just have to stay calm. Someone will come. The slow pulse of emergency lights drapes a red glow across your back. The cogitator falls dormant and you hold your breath until it blinks back to life. A cluster of dots suddenly appears on the scanner, blinking slowly across the screen.

“This is Outpost Urania One-Five-Oh,” you say quickly, rattling off all the necessary proclamations with your heart in your throat. Please answer, you think desperately. You pick at the thick, thermal material of your maintenance uniform, scratching anxiously at the high turtleneck collar. Moments pass in agonizing silence. Your breathing quickens into hyperventilation. “This…this is…”

“Copy, Urania One-Five-Oh.” The voice is stern, every word sharp and clearly enunciated. “This is the Righteous Edict of Patrol Fleet Cobalt-Prime. Describe the nature of your emergency.”

A patrol fleet! You have to collect yourself, your relief so powerful it almost becomes panic again. “I’m—it’s, uh—” You stop. Deep breaths. You’re so tired and hungry and afraid, but you’re going to get out of here. You just have to keep it together a little longer. “We were attacked. It happened so fast. It was xenos, I think, I didn’t—I’m just a menial. Our orbital defenses are gone and our systems are failing. There’s not many of us left, we were ordered to salvage what’s left but it’s—it’s really not looking good.”

“Copy.” Another long pause. You watch the dots on the scanner hover in place. They’ll stop, won’t they? They’ll help you? They have to. You pull and pick at the turtleneck of your uniform again, your breath coming in quick, shallow puffs. They have to. They have to. You can’t do this anymore. The communications chamber is deathly silent. There’s no one here but you and the dust in the air and the mess of cords and cables forming knots and webs across the metal floor. The ventilation occasionally wheezes. Coolant leaks from a busted machine chassis in the corner. The emergency lights grow dimmer with each passing hour and you’re starting to see things in the shadows. Swift, moving shapes. Cruel eyes and sharp smiles.

There’s nothing there. Probably.

“Forwarding your location via astropathic relay,” the Righteous Edict reports. “Regrettably, we can’t render aid. We’re en route to Lothal to rendezvous—”

“No, please!” You’re frantic. You can’t help your outburst. “We’ve already been here, waiting, for weeks. Everything is shutting down. Our tech priests are missing, we can’t keep the outpost running anymore! We’re almost out of rations and with all of our defenses down, we’re sitting ducks. Can’t you just…we need help, we need to leave!”

“Compose yourself, Urania One-Five-Oh,” comes the cold reply. “You are speaking to a Naval Commissar. I cannot divert the entire fleet for a single outpost when we are needed elsewhere. By the grace of the God-Emperor, your message has been received and will be passed along.”

You’re going to be sick. Your head is spinning and your pulse is racing, cold tendrils of despair squeezing your heart. It could be months before someone comes across this remote corner of the galaxy again. Years, if the tides of the warp set them astray. The communication chamber becomes smears of gray-green and blinking red through your tears.

“Please don’t leave me here,” you beg, your voice quivering. “Please, I can’t…there’s, there’s supplies! We have supplies, weapons, you can take whatever you want! You can—” You have to think, you have to offer him something. Lothal, he said. They’re going to Lothal. That’s a Forge World. To rendezvous, not for repairs. What does that mean? A meeting? A political maneuver? Supporting an Explorator fleet, maybe. He’s a Commissar, he’s probably going to talk to someone important. He’d want the upper hand in negotiations. “The Magos, he said…he told us we have to get the device somewhere safe. Too risky to keep them here anymore.”

“Device?” The reply comes much faster this time. “What device? Describe it.”

He’s listening. He’s interested. You have to think fast. “Oh, it’s…it’s not too big. Not tiny, either. Metallic. Sort of oddly-shaped. There’s some sort of interface on it but I was told not to touch it. The Magos made it display a pict once but I’m not sure what it showed. He called it a ‘blessed blueprint.’”

You wait in suffocating silence. One of the emergency lights sputters out. You can smell a sharp chemical stench coming from somewhere, burning and corrosive in your nose. The whole outpost seems to groan and creak around you, the aging metal damaged and threatening to collapse. The planet’s surface outside the outpost isn’t inhospitable. The air is breathable, but the nights are bitterly cold. If the power goes out, could you scavenge enough material to stay warm? You care about that so much less than the eerie quiet. Trickling, spark-popping, shrill electronic beeping, but never voices. Never footsteps. Never anyone but you.

You are sore and exhausted from hunching over the cogitator, you are starving and running low on emergency naval rations, but more than anything, you are alone. You scratch at your neck with a whimper.

The cogitator’s speakers hiss with static and the words you’ve waited so long to hear finally arrive. “Urania One-Five-Oh, a ground team is now being assembled. Provide outpost coordinates and prepare for immediate evac. Do not handle the STC blueprint, please, or the tech priests might shoot you on sight. One of my men will provide you with a secure transport safe.”

“Throne bless you,” you say hoarsely. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. B—be advised, Righteous Edict, there’s a debris field in our orbit.”

“We see it.”

You give them the coordinates and then you switch off the cogitator’s microphone so they don’t hear your weeping. Soon. You’ll be out of here soon. Just a little longer. You watch one of the dots on the scanner break from formation and start blinking closer, traces of a shaky, hopeful smile on your lips.

There’s not much for you to do now but wait. You have nothing to take with you, no precious belongings to pack. You shut off several extraneous functions, rerouting power from other parts of the outpost to brighten the exterior lights so they can find you more easily. The skin of your neck is getting irritated under the cloth from how much you’re rubbing and scratching and picking, but you can’t help it. You just want this to be over.

The wreckage of dozens of ships circles the Urania outpost’s planetoid in a twinkling river. You can’t see it with the naked eye until a piece nudges loose and plummets through the atmosphere, a streak of green fire across the sky. The arrival of the patrol fleet’s landing shuttle disturbs several chunks of shrapnel that turn into falling stars somewhere over the horizon. You wait at the foot of the outpost’s front step, shivering and rubbing your arms. Midday isn’t as frigid as night, but you can still see your breath in the air. The shuttle makes a quick, bumpy descent to the rocky surface, sliding to a stop on a metal landing platform bearing the ashy stains of artillery blasts.

The commissar came in person. He’s the last one off the shuttle, preceded by an armed group of naval soldiers. He descends the boarding ramp with a cautious, scowling glance at his surroundings, a sword at his hip and a bolt pistol in his hand. You glance at the sky again, expectant.

“What happened here?” the commissar asks you. He and his men approach with far more hostility in their body language than you’d expect for rescuers.

You shake your head. “I don’t know what they were. They had us badly outnumbered. Disabled our defenses somehow and then swooped in like vultures. I think they took prisoners.”

“But not you?”

“No. We were trying to get the shields and anti-air artillery back online, so we were in the control center. They never came inside. I’m not sure why. But we’re stranded and things have deteriorated badly since.”

The commissar narrows his eyes. “How many survivors?”

“Less than ten of us,” you say. “Maintenance personnel, mostly.”

“Hm.” He looks suspicious. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter. You’re almost out of here. You’re so close. The commissar studies your face and work uniform, the blood and grit caked to your hands and stuck beneath your nails, and then he nods. “We need the STC secured,” he tells you.

“Right, of course,” you say quickly. You look past them, towards the horizon, your pulse picking up. It’s fine, isn’t it? Everything’s going to be fine. “Uh. This way.”

You hoped you’d never have to step foot inside the outpost again. An alarm blares somewhere, a rhythmic, monotonous droning that echoes far away. Smashed cogitator screens hang crooked on the walls, showing fizzling gray lines. Blood spatters the walls of corridors, long dry, but there are no bodies. Every passing moment makes your fear sharpen. This isn’t right. You should be leaving by now. You were good. You did everything you were supposed to. Tears burn your eyes and your throat constricts.

You get as far as the mess hall, all overturned chairs and shattered tile, when your legs give out. You can’t go any further and you’re inconsolable, curled up beside a broken table with your head in your hands. One of the soldiers kneels at your side, checking for head wounds. The commissar voxes the Righteous Edict asking for a second shuttle and a medic. He frowns tightly, then repeats his request. The sight of his rigid posture and wary glance back at you over his shoulder makes your sobs turn to sniffles, hope blooming in your chest.

It’s going to be okay, you realize. You never should’ve doubted him.

The commissar orders the soldier beside you to move away. He clutches his bolt pistol and starts to say something. “What…?” You can only guess what he meant. What’s going on? What really happened here? What have you done? It doesn’t matter.

The shriek of a shard weapon firing sounds like a thousand windows shattering. The commissar stumbles back with wide eyes and blood trickling from his open mouth, glittering crystal shrapnel piercing his chest. Luminescent green liquid trickles from each sliver and into his wounds, hissing on contact. The shot is incredibly precise. You hear the clustered ammunition whisper just above your head. You don’t run for cover. You stay where you are and hold perfectly still as the room erupts in a cacophony of blaster fire, streaks of sizzling void punching through armor and unraveling flesh in bubbling bursts because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Sit. And wait. And trust him, like always.

And you do. You trust him more than anyone. Bodies fall all around you, skin pincushioned, wounds crystal-studded, limbs and throats and clutched, heaving chests weeping red, and you don’t move. You sit there in the middle of all of it, darklight shrieking so close to your cheek that you feel the kiss of the void sizzle on your skin, blood spatters painting your clothes. Not a single shot missed. Not a single blast lodges in the wall or clips a table and not a single stray poison-filled shard lodges in your back. The commissar and his men writhe on the floor in quivering agony. Most of them will live and wish they hadn’t.

And then you hear it. You hear him. They’re all here, too, the lesser lords and ladies, but you can pick out his slow, confident saunter through the chaos, the click of his boots across the floor. The pain in your heart fades and the fear melts away, everything swirling into peaceful bliss.

“There’s my darling songbird,” Xeranthross coos, looking down at your quivering form. He’s a perfect being, as beautiful as he is dangerous. Every movement is graceful and every word is a low, seductive purr. Eyes like rubies and smile like the curve of a knife, his hair is jet black and uneven, longer one one side than the other. You aren’t ashamed to throw yourself at his feet, letting the barbs and spikes jutting from his armor scrape your skin as you tremble with soft sobs of relief. “Oh, you poor thing! Why the tears?”

You try to answer but all that comes out is wretched, warbling nonsense. It makes him chuckle. He bends slightly from his towering height, resting the pointed claws of his gloves on your head.

“You didn’t doubt me, did you?” he asks, his voice lowering to something menacing.

“No!” You make yourself speak, forcing the words out as quickly as you can no matter how incomprehensible they might be through your weeping. “No, no, no, I didn’t, I swear, I didn’t, I never doubted you! Never!” You knew he would come. You knew, deep down, no matter how many days dragged into nights. “I didn’t,” you mewl, rubbing your face against the side of his boot. Your cheek catches on his armor’s spikes and you feel blood beading to the surface, a warm trickle down your chin. You don’t mind. Any pain he gives you is a gift.

“Hush,” he says. You try. You cover your mouth to stifle your own miserable sounds. “Who do you trust, my dear? More than anyone?”

“You,” you say. You don’t even have to think about it.

“And who do you obey, before all others?”

“You. Only you.” You shudder when his claw grazes your throat, pinching the fabric of your uniform between his fingers. He peels the turtleneck down, exposing a dark ring of metal. It’s a simple but elegant thing, a thick band of black that reflects deep blues and greens when the light dances across it. Made of the same lightweight, skin-tight material that forms Xeranthross’ armor, the band is engraved with the complex scrawl of runes you can’t read. He’s told you they signify ownership. Should you be found by others of his kind, they will know who you belong to.

Xeranthross traces the symbols on the collar with the sharp tip of one finger, his eyes half-lidded and his smile satisfied. He cups your chin and you look up at him, just as you’ve been taught. “And who do you sing for?” he asks.

“You,” you whisper. “Always you.”

“Mm. Very good. Now on your feet.”

You rush to obey, standing so quickly you feel lightheaded and sway on your feet. Xeranthross doesn’t tell you where to go. He shoves you back and you stumble, a cracked countertop digging into your back. You’re lifted on top of it effortlessly, your legs left to dangle. Xeranthross slots himself between your open legs and his glove cups the space between your thighs. Before, you would’ve tried to stop yourself from making noise. You would’ve bitten your lip until it bled. Now, you know better. You let him hear every sharp breath and whimper. The stiff, leathery material covering his palm presses hard against your sex and you shamelessly grind against it.

“There’s my good little songbird,” he says, the praise sending blood rushing between your legs. His touch is rough and fast and not enough, muffled and not enough through your clothing, but you don’t dare ask for more. He’ll give you what you deserve. You push your hips against his hand and moan for him, secretly hoping you can earn something more. “What a needy little thing. Did you miss me?”

“So much,” you say shakily. Your breathing is quick and frantic. Xeranthross drinks in the sight of your eager, arching body, your parted lips and bucking hips, but most of all, he looks at your collar. He grinds his palm against you harder as he stares at it, rubbing so hard it starts to hurt.

“Did you touch yourself?” he purrs.

You stiffen under him. You did. You did, and he didn’t tell you that you could. He didn’t forbid it, either, but you’re supposed to ask for permission. You know that. Xeranthross clicks his tongue in disapproval. His claws hook in the waistband of your uniform’s lower half, pulling it down so viciously that the fabric rips around his claws. He doesn’t take them off completely. He keeps it bunched just beneath your hips, keeping your legs trapped. The air in the room is cold and somehow he’s even colder. He teases you with the back of his hand, interlaced plates of metal leaving goosebumps everywhere he touches.

“It’s alright,” he coos. “You can tell me. You trust me, don’t you? More than anyone?”

You do. Of course you do. Xeranthross drags his fingertips down the heated flesh between your legs and you shudder. He could cut you easily if he’s not careful. He could do much, much worse if he wants. But you trust him, so you squirm and whimper but you don’t pull away. You lay on your back and you let his touch ghost up and down with slightly more pressure each time.

“I did,” you say, quiet and ashamed. “I…I touched myself. Thinking about you.”

Xeranthross smiles. “Thinking about me doing what?”

About him taking you. Fucking you. Bending you over the cogitator and sinking his long, pierced cock into your body until he’s fully hilted. Thrusting hard and fast, leaving long, bloody marks down your sides and back with his claws. Taking you any way he wants, as many times as he wants, spilling inside of you and dripping down your thighs. Letting the other lords and ladies use you while he watches, stroking himself to the song of your pleasure and pain. And when the prey comes bumbling in, he guts them like animals and takes you again in the mess he makes. He smears red handprints over your skin and leaves you with scratches and bites. You tell him this and you know it pleases him because he gives you another dangerous stroke with just the tip of his claw.

“Do you remember what you were like when I found you?” he asks.

You nod, slight and ashamed. You do. You weren’t much different than the commissar and the others. Not much different than all the repair crews and treasure seekers and pirates and evangelists who came here before them, the remnants of their last foolish venture now circling silently in orbit. But you were special. That’s why he picked you. You were the quietest. You hid the best. Lived longest, day in and day out scurrying through the outpost’s darkness, until you had no strength left. Xeranthross plucked you from the storage closet you’d stuffed yourself inside. He dragged you out by the ankle with a sharp grin and told you he’d grown tired of all the silence and monotony. He wondered if he could make you loud.

“How far you’ve come since then! What a wonderful little songbird you became.” He pulls away suddenly. It’s a struggle not to whine at the loss of his touch. “Get up,” he says. You do, embarrassed by the mess he made of your clothing. The others are smirking at you. Staring intently, with heat in their gazes. “Leave those rags behind. I’ve had something new made for you. Something much more fitting for my darling bird.”

Xeranthross smiles and all the shame of your shame is forgotten. There’s nothing wrong with this. Not if it pleases him. He wraps an arm around you, his claws dragging down your shoulder. It hurts, and it throbs, and it oozes. It makes him look at you like meat. He pulls you closer and you don’t fight, no matter how many times his armor’s spikes gouge your skin.

“I think you’re ready for a much prettier cage,” he says, and you shiver with delight.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #warhammer 40k #falling behind on asks/comments again sorry about that #these last few prompts have kicked my ass because ive been much busier during the day than id like to be!

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