#they’re human. oversights happen.

[cozymochi]

was it just an oversight that the app forgot to… put Sam’s actual edited render in the game album properly

like, i just noticed that that’s just his live2d model kshshdgdh and it’s not like they DON’T have the edited version of his full original illustration, itS ON THEIR OFFICIAL WEBSITE

SO IT MUST HAVE JUST BEEN AN OVERSIGHT OR SOMETHING cuz im assuming it was meant to be a placeholder but jgdhvdgdg

they forgor. just like they forgor to put the words. “Grade/Class” on Ortho’s updated bio after book 6 is completed😔

WHOOPSIE

[whereserpentswalk]

Children are no longer legally allowed to exist.

Human reproduction was the last of the major functions of the human body to be technologically replaced. Sleep has been cut down to less then an hour a day, the digestive system has been altered so a modern person can eat as much or as little as they want, and gain and lose as much weight as they want, without producing waste. Even aging is no longer something done by those who don’t want it. It only made sense that the luxury of the modern world would eventually outmode the cruel and diminutive state of childhood.

A modern person will be conceived artificially, possibly with thousands of individuals contributing to their genetic code, and grown in a large tube from the age of minus nine months to the age of eighteen. For nearly nineteen years they will lack any sentient thought, being put in a state on anesthesia until they come of age. It is considered unethical and inhumane under international law to allow a human being to exist in a larval state.

Before being awoken, people have knowledge of basic education that in previous generations would be covered by years of schooling. They are also given basic knowledge to exist as an adult. Most people are awoken as students within universities, their first experience being their initiation into school and their freshmen year, their first home being their dorms. In some places companies are allowed to awaken humans as workers, which is not legally slavery because people are allowed to leave the jobs they’re awoken into, even if they’re not told they are able to. In times of war people will sometimes be given a pre awakening conscription, meaning they’re actively awoken as new recruits in basic training. Eugenics isn’t legal, but there’s not much oversight for if a company or military organization tends to awaken more people with physical traits they prefer.

Without children the world looks a lot different then it did in when they were around. Those who remember when the transition was made can talk about a world with empty playgrounds, and toy stores without customers. But now the world is completely without anything catering to children. Those who argue for the return of children to the world are met with just how little exists for them in this world. There are no safety standards with children in mind, no ratings on movies, nothing made in child’s size save for a few accommodations for dwarfs. Every piece of media is made with an audience of exclusively adults in mind, even things like plushes or action figures are designed for adult collectors, not children who would play with them. There are some superstitious people who think doll eyes have always looked a bit sadder since they last children grew up.

Since children are no longer legally allowed to exist, the means to physically produce them has been removed from human bodies. Long before any human in awakened the organs that would be used to reproduce are removed through painless surgery, and the ability to desire sex is whipped from their minds. It makes things easier. And likewise it’s safer, just as the removal of children meant the removal of the abuse of children, the removal of sex means the removal of sexual predation.

People in a way have a type of freedom without sexual attraction that they wouldn’t back when it existed. People can touch or cuddle each other in any way they want without it being weird, people can dress how they want, women don’t fear men the way they used to. It’s possible these things could still happen within a species with sexual attraction but we never got there, and the education implanted into people’s minds before they awakening certainly teaches one as leading to the other. There are still a few people who do still have some amount of those feelings, but they’re considered a statistical anomaly and are encouraged not to talk about or act on such things.

There is a feeling of emptiness in some people who remember the world when children existed, like something is missing. Even some people born long after children were outlawed sometimes feel an emptiness. Some people get pets if they have a instinct to take care of something, though humans are the only mammal to survive the great plague, there are lizards and birds and snakes and small robots that can keep people company. Some people take on apprentices that they can grow extremely close to them, often having relationships that reflect a parent’s relationship to an older child. There are even some subcultures where people will form relationships where one person will pay for another’s expenses for nothing in return, and allow that person to live with them without any employment, which some theorize in a mirror of parenthood. There are even some people who practice types of sensual acts that seem to mirror the mating process humans once had, even if they’d never seen such acts. It’s like these things are part of us, even when we don’t have the things these emotions were meant to interface with, like an animal still having a cry to alert for a long extinct predator.

Children are one of those things a lot of people think they might be happier if they got to live in a world with, but legalizing them just never seemed practical or ethical. There isn’t really any major political ideology that wants to bring them back, it’s not something people think about. People talk about children like they do swords, something that once was, but is not thought of in the context of fantasy. And perhaps that is how it will be. People will have their normal adult lives, and life will go on, and people will still have happy memories, and still write books, and still look at sunsets, and still sing songs, even without them.

There are some people who believe you can hear the ghosts of children in certain places, their laughter ringing in people’s ears in lonely spots near ancient parks. Psychologists haven’t yet figured out why every culture possesses such a superstition.

[silverlullabies]

B E L L I C O S E

Summary: Captain John Price has faced countless enemies in his career, but none like you. A mercenary with a reputation, you infiltrate his unit under the guise of cooperation, but your true motive is far more sinister. Using charm and manipulation to pull their strings, Price finds himself caught in a game he can’t control or predict.

Pairing: Mercenary!Reader x Captain Price, vague mentions of Soap x Reader, Gaz x Reader, and Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 16k+

Tags/Triggers: Smut(18+), gaslighting, blood, murder, afab reader, psychological manipulation, guns, knives, death, violence (it’s based off a game about soldiers shooting bad guys, come on), oral (female receiving), vaginal sex, human trafficking, dubious consent, alcohol, really dark content, morally gray reader who’s probably a sociopath, enemies to lovers if you squint

AN: two things, one: I didn’t set out to write this as a morally gray reader. The story kind of got away from me while I was writing it. My bad. And two, I describe the reader as petite compared to the 141 but at its a reverse trope of the petite tiny girl so at least give me the benefit of the doubt and make it past the briefing scene before you give up on it because of the trope. The reader is based off an actual OC of mine in a book I’m writing. I just love Peepaw Price, okay.

BELLICOSE: adjective. demonstrating aggression and willingness to fight.

Alarm bells rang in Price’s head as he watched you, gliding through the shadows of his office like a panther hunting prey. He had known from the start that bringing you onto the team was a mistake. Bloodied teeth and hands stained with grit, fingers curling around blades and triggers with lethal precision.

In a room full of predators like the 141, you were still the apex.

But Laswell had insisted, and Price—ever loyal to her judgment—had conceded, like always.

It wouldn’t happen again.

***

It always started the same way: someone screwed up, and the stakes escalated. Regular operators couldn’t handle the fallout, so they called in the 141—need dirty hands wading through a cesspool of problems? They’re your men.

“You need her on this one,” Laswell had said, sliding your dossier across the sleek ebony wood table that probably cost more than one of his paychecks.

Price didn’t need to read it. Everyone knew The Mercenary. Every soldier worth his salt had heard your name whispered in the dark corridors of conflict.

Deadly. Beautiful. Like a vengeful goddess slinking through the battlefield, your reputation was legend even among special operators who had long since abandoned the idea of there being a god out there. You’d accomplished more in your career than most units combined would in a lifetime.

Price didn’t need to feel the weight of your file to understand. If you’d followed the conventional path, you’d probably be a five-star general by now—his commanding officer. But you had chosen a different way.

Government-contracted, available to the highest bidder, loyal to no flag but the one that paid your exorbitant fee.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, a twinge of resentment he swallowed down. No luxury of choice for him, no hefty paycheck to chase. Just duty, the same beast inside him that clawed for rest while the storm outside only worsened. But duty called again, and so did you.

Laswell was right, though—Price’s men were good, the best, but this mission was something else. Human traffickers using victims as pawns, running weapons across borders into war-torn lands. Human luggage in a nightmare spun by bureaucratic oversight, one that allowed dangerous enemies to arm themselves.

Price couldn’t see any of his men fitting the part for what needed to be done. He wasn’t about to send Ghost, Gaz, or Soap into the field in a dress and heels.

“When does she get here?” Price growled, his gut tightening at the idea of relying on a mercenary. His instincts screamed danger. There was no loyalty from someone like you, only a paycheck. And if the money ran dry? You’d vanish, leaving them to pick up the pieces. A major risk.

“She’s already here,” Laswell replied, and Price closed his eyes, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders.

Of course you were.

***

You’re even more stunning than the stories claimed. Soft curves, sultry lines, more tantalizing than even the darkest fantasy hidden in the back of his mind—everything about you is crafted to disarm. Wide, calculating eyes and full lips that hint at wicked intent. Even under the harsh, shitty fluorescent lighting of the briefing room, you manage to look ethereal, otherworldly. The glow makes your skin seem almost too perfect, casting shadows that sharpen your edges in a way that commands attention.

Price feels his breath catch in his throat when he sees you in person for the first time—a reaction he despises in himself. He’s a hardened soldier, decades of battles etched into his soul. Yet here you are, making him feel like some green recruit with a schoolboy crush.

Your poise betrays years of experience. Relaxed, almost bored, you drape yourself across the briefing table like a cat lounging in a sunbeam. It’s unsettling, the way you’re completely at ease despite being surrounded by some of the deadliest men in the world. The 141, all seasoned killers, men who’ve faced horrors most can’t imagine; and yet you make them look like the ones on edge. Amateurs. Wet behind the ears recruits.

The way you sit, tipping your chair back on two legs, snapping your gum, it’s borderline disrespectful. You’re surrounded by battle-hardened operators, yet you act as if you’re in your living room. It’s a brazen, almost reckless display of control. You know they’re watching you, torn between admiration and frustration. Some of them shoot heated glances, others glare, but the reaction is the same. You’re already under their skin.

Your eyes lock onto Price’s, and that dangerous, knowing smirk curls your lips. It’s predatory. Calculated. You know the effect you’re having on the room, on him. It’s a game, and you’re winning before it’s even begun. Your confidence is unnerving. It’s clear you’ve been in rooms like this before, with men just like these, and you’ve always come out on top.

Price has seen your type before. Or at least, he thought he had. But as you shift, languid and lethal, he realizes he’s never encountered anyone quite like you. There’s something almost intoxicating about the way you move, the way you radiate power, sex, and control.

The dossier warned him about your preferred methods. Psychological warfare, it said, and you excelled at it beyond anything any military had ever seen. But now, watching you in action, he understands the depth of that statement. You aren’t just skilled: you’re a force of nature, effortlessly bending men to your will with nothing more than a glance or a smirk.

Price clenches his jaw, reminding himself to stay sharp. You may be beautiful, but you’re dangerous, and in this room full of predators, you’re the alpha.

The tension in the room is palpable as you continue lounging, still flashing that confident, almost taunting smirk. A few of the men exchange looks, clearly wrestling with disbelief. They’ve heard the stories, just like Price, but seeing you now, looking more like a runway model than a deadly mercenary; it’s hard for them to reconcile the myth with the woman before them. The weight of your reputation hovers in the air, but no one speaks it aloud.

Surely the stories were exaggerated, Price thought as he watched you, the quiet figure lounging amidst the behemoths of the 141. You were small—tiny, even—compared to the hulking men surrounding you. They were all sinew and muscle, hardened by the scars of war, skin puckered with keloids and edged with experience. Every inch of them screamed violence, battle-honed warriors ready to strike. And then there was you, standing in the center of it all, soft and petite, as if you’d somehow wandered into the wrong place.

Price struggled to reconcile the image before him with the legend he had heard. The Mercenary—the Mercenary—who had single-handedly taken out entire terrorist cells, dismantled cartels, and assassinated warlords, all while slipping in and out of hostile territories like a ghost. You had pulled off the impossible: extracting hostages from fortified strongholds, escaping death traps set by men who underestimated you, and—on one memorable occasion that seemed too far-fetched to believe—boarding a hijacked plane already 35,000 feet in the air with no safety net to catch you if you missed.

But standing there, you looked almost delicate. Fragile, even. As if a papercut would have you turning lachrymose hues to the men, the skin of your small hands unmarred by the callouses that should have come with years of holding a gun steady. How could someone like you, slight and lithe, with a frame that looked like it belonged in a ballroom, not a battlefield, be the same mercenary who had left trails of bodies in your wake?

It was unsettling. Disarming.

Price’s eyes flicked to the men around you. They were cautious too, thrown off by the contradiction you presented. They’d heard the same stories. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and all his other men—they were all sizing you up, waiting for a sign, something that would confirm or deny the rumors that had reached their ears. But you gave nothing away.

It was easy for the stories to seem exaggerated, to dismiss you as anything other than the quiet, almost too-pretty woman standing before them. But Price had a sinking feeling that those stories, the ones that seemed too wild to be true, might not even scratch the surface of what you were capable of.

And that made you the most dangerous one in the room.

Finally, one of the newer recruits, eyes flickering with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, breaks the silence. His voice cuts through the thick atmosphere like a knife. Impatient, he is. Price needs to drill that out of him before it gets him killed one day, or worse.

“Is this really her? The legendary Mercenary?” he asks, doubt threading through his tone. His eyes narrow, darting over your form as if searching for some obvious flaw, something that proves you aren’t the deadly operative you’re supposed to be. “She doesn’t exactly look the part.”

A low murmur passes between the men, and Price watches carefully, gauging your reaction. They’re on edge, these hardened soldiers, unsure of whether they should be impressed or insulted by the idea that you, this beautiful, relaxed woman, are supposedly their ace in the hole.

You don’t miss a beat. Slowly, with deliberate grace, you let your chair drop back onto all four legs and lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The shift in your posture is subtle but powerful. The room stills as you survey the faces around you, that lazy, confident grin never leaving your lips. Then you speak, your voice low and smooth, dripping with a dangerous sort of amusement.

“I don’t look the part?” you repeat, eyes sparkling with mischief as you stretch languidly, the movement sending a ripple of distraction through the room. “Go on, sweetheart, tell me, what exactly do you think your enemies are looking for on the battlefield?”

The recruit hesitates, blinking, before he stammers, eyebrows furrowing as if expecting your words to be a trick question, “Uh… Well… people who look like us. Like soldiers.”

You give him a pitying smile, as if you’re explaining something simple to a child. “Exactly. They’re looking for people like you. Trained men, geared up, muscled, armed to the teeth. Big, scary soldiers who they can see coming from a mile away.” Your voice drops, growing almost intimate as you lean forward, eyes hooded. “They aren’t looking for someone like me.”

The room goes quiet again, everyone hanging on your words as you continue, your tone soft but laced with steel. “By the time they even think to check for someone like me? I’m already in their camp, already bleeding them dry, and they don’t even realize it until it’s too late.”

The recruit swallows, his skepticism fading as the weight of your words sinks in. Your beauty, your relaxed demeanor—it isn’t a weakness. It’s a weapon. A weapon that none of them had ever been taught to anticipate. You sit back in your chair, the smirk widening into something almost predatory, letting the silence stretch before you speak again.

“They see you coming. Hell, they’re expecting you. And sure, you’re tough. You’re strong. You know how to fight. But when you look like me, no one expects the knife in the back. No one expects the bullet between their eyes. They underestimate me.” You pause, the smirk twisting into something darker. “And it always costs them everything.”

There’s a shift in the room now. The men exchange uncertain glances, realizing that their assumptions about you have been dangerously naive. Price watches you closely, his gut tightening. You’ve won the room over, made your point loud and clear without so much as breaking a sweat. It’s unsettling, the way you wield words as skillfully as a blade.

Psychological warfare was your preferred weapon, the dossier highlighted.

And maybe that was your greatest weapon. You were the perfect trap—innocuous on the outside, unassuming. But underneath? Underneath was the lethal precision of someone who had mastered the art of deception, who had turned their own appearance into a weapon as sharp as any blade.

Price felt a knot of unease settle in his gut. You didn’t need muscles or brute force. You had something far more dangerous: the element of surprise. You wanted them to underestimate you. Hell, maybe you enjoyed it.

That realization hit him like a cold blade pressed to his throat, and Price shuddered involuntarily. It wasn’t fear, not exactly; not the kind of fear that came from facing an enemy in combat, but something deeper, more primal. The kind of instinct that had kept men alive for centuries. His spine stiffened as the sensation crept down to his core, urging him to adjust, to move, to make sure he always had his eyes on you.

He shifted his position, subtly but deliberately, ensuring that no matter where you moved in the room, he would never have his back to you. It wasn’t conscious, not at first—just an overwhelming sense that he needed to see you, track you, keep you within his line of sight at all times. It was survival instinct at its most raw.

He didn’t trust you. Couldn’t. Not after everything he’d heard. The stories. The way you could turn on a dime, shifting from ally to predator without a second’s warning. And though he knew you were here for the same reason he was—for now, at least—Price couldn’t shake the feeling that the real threat wasn’t the mission. It was you.

The worst part was that you never made it obvious. There was no overt menace, no clear sign of danger. Just the way you moved, fluid and graceful, like a shadow slipping through the cracks of light. It was too easy to picture you with a blade at his throat or a bullet between his eyes, and the thought unsettled him more than it should. You were a mercenary, after all—this was your game.

No, Price realized, he could never afford to look away from you. Not now. Not ever.

You turn your attention back to the recruit, and your voice softens again, the edge in your tone melting away like honey. “So yes, darling, I’m the one they call when things get ugly. Because no one expects the woman to be the monster.”

You let the words hang in the air, the weight of your reputation finally settling in as the men come to terms with what it means to have you on their side. There’s a reason Laswell insisted on bringing you in. A reason Price didn’t protest harder, despite the warning bells ringing in his head.

You’re a weapon. The deadliest kind. One they’re just beginning to understand.

***

The mission began in uneasy silence, the familiar thrum of the helicopter blades cutting through the tension in the air. Ghost sat across from Price, arms folded, eyes hidden behind his skull mask, but even without seeing his expression, Price could sense the discomfort. Soap and Gaz weren’t much better, both of them fidgeting in their seats, exchanging glances but saying nothing— unusual for the two normally loud Sergeants. The air was thick, charged with an unspoken anxiety, malaise.

You sat with them, but apart—physically and emotionally. While the men carried their weapons, tactical vests, and hardened expressions, you wore something completely out of place. Scandalous even, but necessary for the situation. A slinky dress, cut high up the thigh and plunging just low enough to leave nearly nothing to the imagination. Black, tight, and dangerous—like you. Every inch of it was designed to distract, to draw eyes away from the weapon concealed underneath the allure.

Price shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The idea of sending you in dressed like that—to mingle with human traffickers in their filthy, blood-soaked underworld—didn’t sit right with him. You wore no protection, no physical weapon. But he knew it was necessary. None of them could do what you could, slipping between shadows, playing the part so convincingly it was terrifying. You’d be in the belly of the beast, surrounded by men who bought and sold human lives.

As the helicopter roared towards the drop zone, you were the calmest one there, completely unfazed by the mission ahead. You sat with your legs crossed, leaning back against the hull as if this were a casual night out rather than a covert infiltration into the heart of a trafficking ring. You didn’t even glance at the weapons the others carried—why would you? Your body itself was the weapon, sharpened and deadly, while the dress was just a distraction even to the men on the heli.

Price looked out the window, eyes narrowed as he ran through the mission briefing in his head. The traffickers operated out of an exclusive club, hidden behind layers of corruption and bribes. The “Red Room,” they called it—a place where those with enough money could buy anything, anyone. And that’s where you’d be slipping in.

The plan was simple in theory, though nothing ever went as planned. You’d go in first, the rest of the team scattered throughout the perimeter, waiting for your signal. Once you had eyes on the targets—the ringleaders behind the trafficking operation—you’d take them down. Silent, quick, surgical. The rest of the team would follow, sweeping in to clean up the mess.

Price hated it. Despised it. The reliance on a mercenary, the need for you to infiltrate like this—it gnawed at him, leaving him with a deep sense of helplessness as he waited outside while you ventured straight into the lion’s den.

Call him old-fashioned, but the thought of sending a woman into a place built to break women, to degrade them into nothing more than objects, turned his stomach. His skin crawled with the weight of the decision he’d made, the reluctant agreement he’d given when assigning you this task, knowing what it would subject you to, despite your hardened reputation.

The helicopter jerked slightly as they neared the landing zone, the tension in the cabin tightening as they prepared for what came next.

The men checked their gear, but Price couldn’t help but steal a glance at you. You were adjusting the straps of your heels, unbothered by the shift in the helicopter. You caught him looking, and for a brief moment, you smirked—one of those dangerous, knowing smiles that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Relax, Captain,” you purred, voice low and dripping with amusement. “I’ve done this a hundred times. It’s not me you need to worry about.”

Price grunted in response, but the knot of unease in his gut didn’t loosen. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like you. But there was no denying your skill. You were their only shot at infiltrating and escaping without igniting a full-scale war that would spill into the impoverished neighborhoods surrounding The Red Room, putting the locals at risk.

The helicopter landed with a slight jolt, and you stood with the fluidity of a predator. As the doors opened, the cool night air flooded in, mixing with the heavy, pungent smells of the city—garbage, pollution, and the faint stench of decay clinging to its urban foundation coupled with the sting of hot metal from the helicopter.

You were already moving, stepping out into the shadows without a backward glance. Graceful. Tantalizing. A fucking problem if the heat pooling in his lower abdomen was anything to go by.

The Red Room was waiting for you, and with it, the men who thought they could play gods with human lives.

Inside the club, the air hung heavy with a haze of smoke and luxury, the heady mix of costly cologne, sweat, and spilt liquor clinging to every breath. Lights pulsed in time with the music, casting flickering shadows across velvet booths and marble floors. You moved like a wisp through the sea of bodies, effortlessly weaving past gilded figures lost in indulgence, your sharp eyes sweeping over each face, every shadowed corner, alert for the slightest hint of danger.

No one paid you any mind. Just another beautiful woman in a sea of beauty, here to be admired, objectified, discarded.

Your eyes never left the traffickers. They were predators in tailored suits, laughing behind the safety of closed doors, basking in their perceived invincibility. They had no idea that the real predator had already infiltrated their den. A viper in a den of wolves.

Among them, you spotted a target—a bloated, balding man, a thick cigar dangling from his lips as he smirked, a young girl, stiff with terror and silently pleading anyone with her eyes for help, held under his heavy fat arm like an accessory while he dragged her beyond double doors. In an instant, you melted into the shadows, slipping away from the glittering chaos of the club like a whisper carried on the wind, following them.

The Red Room was hidden down a dim corridor, guarded by two burly men. You approached them with a practiced, sultry smile; an expression crafted to exploit the foolishness and vanity of men like these. It worked, as it always did. One of them barely glanced at you before stepping aside, holding the door open without hesitation.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The decadent luxury of the club gave way to something colder, darker. The air in the hallway felt sterile and oppressive, thick with the stench of fear and cruelty. Tears and sex. Depravity and desolation.

As you walked, the soft click of your heels against the marble floor echoed through the space, a haunting reminder of the danger lurking just beneath the surface. Outside, the guards remained blissfully unaware of the storm about to break.

***

Outside, Price and his men lay in wait, a silent sentinel group surveying the entrance. They were a hawk-eyed presence, alert to every detail as they observed the ebb and flow of clubgoers; oblivious revelers lost in the rhythm of the night, unaware of the horrors festering behind the liquor-drenched walls of the establishment. Among them were the human traffickers, predators moving with calculated ease through the crowd, fully aware of the darkness that lurked within.

As the hours dragged on, tension grew palpable in the air. His men shifted restlessly, eyes darting towards the entrance, where your absence weighed heavy. The recruits fidgeted first, their anxiety contagious; soon, even the seasoned veterans succumbed to the unease.

You should have signaled by now.

An uncomfortable weight settled in Price’s gut, worry sinking like a stone, as doubt slithered into his mind. Had his trust in you been misplaced? Were your stories mere fabrications? Was he leading a lamb to slaughter, destined to storm the building only to find your lifeless shell left among the remnants of your fight, chewed up and spat out among the cum-stained shackles of other victims?

Just as he began to consider which of his men he would send in to check on you, the comms crackled to life, your voice sultry and cursory. “Bravo-Six, this is Bravo-Two, how copy?”

Price jolted, relief singing through his veins, the tension in his chest easing. “Solid, Bravo-Two. What's your sitrep?”

“Come see. Back door through the alley. Watch your footing. Follow the hallway on your left to a row of offices. Third door on your right.” And then silence enveloped the channel once more, your voice replaced by the eerie quiet that had plagued it for hours now.

Price exchanged a quick glance with Ghost, the closest man to him, before signaling for the team to move. The meaning behind your warning echoed in his mind, leaving him to wonder what you meant about needing to watch his footing.

He wouldn’t have to wonder for long.

As they entered the back door, the scene before him was grotesque. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, torn and mutilated as if an unstoppable force had swept through them like a violent storm. The human traffickers, buyers, and sellers were dead, their lifeless forms littered with stab wounds and bullet holes, blood pooling around them in dark, congealed puddles, mixing with shards of glass and spilled liquor.

In the shadowy corners of The Red Room, only the victims remained alive—caged like wounded animals, trembling and whimpering, their bodies splattered with the blood of their tormentors.

Price signaled to some of his men to break off and attend to the victims while instructing others to clear the club beyond a set of double doors. The pounding music masked the carnage that lay inside, a stark contrast to the horror they had just uncovered. The rest followed him down a lavishly decorated hallway into a series of opulent offices, where he found you standing amidst the chaos—three dead men scattered around you.

The fourth man knelt on the floor, blood oozing from a gash in his cheek, hands bound behind his back. His eyes wide in terror as he stared at you, as if confronted by a demon, his mind no doubt racing through a rapid reassessment of his life choices as you forced him to come face to face with his mortality.

“Saved you one,” you drawled in lieu of a greeting as you caught sight of the Captain, your hair and skin slick with the tacky blood of others, but not yours.

“You were supposed to call for us, not take on all the traffickers by yourself,” Price snapped, his frustration palpable. You blinked at him, as if the notion of needing assistance was a foreign concept, a radical idea that the 141’s involvement should have been more than a fleeting afterthought.

With an unapologetic shrug, you met his gaze, defiance radiating from you. “Easier this way.”

Unrepentant. Disrespectful.

He hated you. Fucking Mercenaries.

A slow, almost predatory grin curled at your lipstick stained lips, as though you could read Price’s mind and took pleasure in the thought that he despised you. Yet, you didn’t acknowledge it—not now. Still, there was a glint in your eyes, something that made Price’s jaw tighten. He knew you’d throw it in his face later. Call it instinct.

Instead, you turned to the bound man, giving his blood-soaked cheek a condescending pat, like one might to a dog. Blood sprayed across his already stained collar as your manicured fingers dug into his swollen skin. “Meet Vasily Mikhailovich. Human trafficker. Arms dealer. Limited intelligence. Smallest dick you’ve ever seen—”

Vasily snarled in rage, and despite his restraints, he lunged at you. Before Price or his men could react with anything more than raising their weapons, there was a sharp crack. Vasily collapsed at your feet, screaming in agony, his clavicle jutting grotesquely through taut skin. Price hadn’t even seen you move until you were casually resuming your stance, as though nothing had happened.

“That wasn’t very smart of you,” you mused, staring down at the whimpering man, nudging him with the tip of your heel until he rolled over. “It’s rude to try and hit ladies, Mikhailovich.”

A string of curses, half in English, half in Russian, spilled from his lips, but you only smiled, your amusement growing with each word.

You let him continue for a few seconds before you crouched down beside Vasily, your movements fluid and deliberate and his words seemed to die in his throat. You placed your fingers along his jawline, tutting slightly, shushing him.

Price saw it then, the way you wielded your allure like a well-honed tool. With a subtle arch in your back, your posture softened, the dim light of the office casting just the right shadows to highlight your beauty. Your lips curved into a sultry smile, eyes hooded, inviting him— and the rest of the men in the room by extension— to fall into your gaze.

“Shhh,” you whispered, and the air seemed to thicken as you reached out and traced the tip of your blood-slicked finger along his jawline and lower lip, feather light and lingering, like a lover’s touch. His breath hitched, a mix of pain and primal fear contorting his face, but his eyes, those bloodshot, desperate eyes, were hooked on yours.

“Good boy,” you murmured, voice a little sweeter this time, as if rewarding him for his compliance.

“You know, Vasily,” you purred, your voice like velvet, smooth and sinuous, wrapping around the room and dragging everyone into its grasp, “this could go one of two ways. You can keep fighting, keep snarling like the wild dog you are, or…” You leaned in closer, your lips nearly brushing his ear, your words a delicate whisper. “You can tell me everything I need to know. And I’ll make sure the pain stops.”

Vasily’s breathing grew ragged, his mind fraying at the edges, caught between the unbearable throbbing of his broken bone and the soft cadence of your voice. The way you spoke was a lullaby wrapped in threat, every syllable pulling him further into your orbit. Your touch, your voice, your closeness, all of it was like a drug, a disorienting effect that left him feeling both weak and intensely present all at once.

Behind you, Price’s men shifted, eyes flickering between you and the scene unfolding. Even Price, seasoned and hardened as he was, found himself unwillingly mesmerized by the subtle sway of your voice and the deliberate elegance of your movements. Your presence wove through the room like an intoxicating perfume, something that clung to the air, seeming to lull every threat into submission.

Like a manipulative deadly trap.

You moved your hand lower, tracing the lines of Vasily’s arm, lingering just above his restraints, fingers feather-light, the promise of relief so close yet maddeningly distant. His eyes fluttered, and for a second, the defiance in him flickered, like a candle in a storm.

“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you, Vasily?” The words dripped like honey, your lips curling into a smile that was equal parts deadly and intoxicating. Your words echoed through their minds, a seductive whisper that wrapped around their thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything else. “I know you want to. It’s so much easier to obey. So much easier to make the pain stop.”

He swallowed hard, his tongue darting nervously across his cracked lips. “I—I don’t know anything,” he stammered, his voice hoarse, but there was less conviction now. Your presence was overwhelming, dominating. He wasn’t even speaking to a human anymore; you were something else entirely. Something that demanded submission. He felt powerless, helpless in your clutches, unable to pull away even if he wanted to.

You chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through him. “Don’t lie, Vasily.” You ran your fingers through his greasy hair, tugging lightly, enough to elicit a groan from him. His eyes half-closed as you tugged harder, the sharp pain mingling with the soft lilt of your voice in a way that confused him, that made his head spin. “I know you know. You wouldn’t be where you are if you didn’t. Now tell me…”

You let the sentence hang, trailing your free hand down his neck, your nails grazing his skin lightly, drawing a shudder from him. The whole room seemed to hang on your words, even Price’s men— even Soap, Gaz, and Ghost, seemed caught in your snare, their breaths shallow, as if they too were waiting for something to break.

Your lips brushed dangerously close to Vasily’s ear, tone warm, gentle, enough to make him doubt whether you were a threat at all, or if maybe, just maybe, you were on his side. He gasped, and his resistance snapped. “All right, all right!” His voice was strained, desperate. “It’s—it’s the shipments. The next one’s coming in two days. Weapons. Girls. They— they’re moving them through the docks. I swear. That’s all I know. Just—fuck.”

You smiled again, softer this time, a false kindness that made Vasily’s heart skip, and released your grip on his hair, smoothing it back into place with an almost tender touch. “There you go,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The relief on his face was palpable, as if he had been released from some invisible chokehold and in that instant the spell you’d weaved over the entire room like strands of spun sugar shattered leaving Price feeling like he’d been dunked into an icy lake.

Vasily’s entire body sagged, his muscles slackening under your gaze as you rose gracefully to your feet, giving a languid stretch and turned to Price, eyes gleaming with that same magnetic energy.

“All yours, Captain,” you said, your voice a little too sweet, a little too dangerous. “Unless, of course, you’re still doubting me?”

Price’s jaw tightened, the image of the bodies you dropped in the corridor outside of the office flashing through his mind, his eyes flickering on Vasily and the tent in his pants, the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction, the boost to your ego, but his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t doubt you. Not anymore. None of them would.

***

Two days later, the docks loom before them, sprawling across the coastline like a forgotten graveyard of steel and rust. Shipping containers stacked high like tombstones, warehouses slouched in the distance, and cranes poised like skeletons against the darkening sky. The sea churns in the background, a slate gray mass flecked with whitecaps as the eastern wind howls through the gaps between the structures. The smell of saltwater and oil hangs in the air, thick and acrid, clinging to everything like a stain that won’t wash off. Overhead, the cries of gulls are swallowed by the low hum of machinery, the industrial heartbeat of a place where shadowy deals are brokered in the dark. The perfect setting for the kind of bloodstained business you’re about to tear apart.

Tonight, there’s no need for seductive disguises or glittering gowns. You’re clad in tactical gear that fits like a second skin, tight Kevlar pants hugging your form, combat boots laced tight, and a custom tactical vest that clings to your curves in a way that draws more than a few glances from the others. No helmet, though—when Soap questions your lack of NVGs, his brow furrowed in confusion, you merely smirk at him, your voice dropping to a playful coo as if he’s a child asking about monsters under the bed. “Don’t worry, love. I see plenty in the dark.”

Unlike last time, you’re not going in alone. You move with them, part of the team, though it quickly becomes clear that you’re still in a league of your own. As the raid begins, Price watches you weave through the shadows, faster and deadlier than anyone else. The operation moves like clockwork, the team dispersing to take their positions, rifles poised, eyes sharp. But while the others move like soldiers, precise and tactical, you move like a predator, instinct guiding you as much as training.

The first targets fall almost too easily. You glide up behind one of the guards, your knife flashing like silver lightning in the moonlight, and in an instant, the man crumples to the ground, his throat slit before he even knows what hit him. Silent. Efficient. Deadly. Price catches a glimpse of you through the scope of his rifle, watching as you drag the body into the shadows, your movements quick and fluid, and he’s reminded of the reports he read—brutal, vicious, without mercy.

But words on paper pale in comparison to the reality before him. As the firefight breaks out, gunfire erupts around the docks, chaos exploding in every direction, and you’re in the thick of it, tearing through enemies with a terrifying grace. You’re not just fighting; you’re dismantling them, piece by bloody piece. One man lunges at you with a knife, and in a heartbeat, you twist his wrist with a bone-snapping crack, slam him against a shipping container, and bury your blade in his chest without a second thought. Another opens fire, but before he can get a second shot off, you’re already on him, disarming him with a brutal kick to the jaw that leaves him sprawling on the ground. You don’t hesitate to finish him off, a single bullet to the skull, your movements cold and unrelenting.

Price orders his men to push forward, but his gaze keeps flicking back to you. He’s seen black ops soldiers in action before—seen Spetsnaz cut through enemies with machine-like precision—but you’re something else. There’s a ferocity in the way you fight, a raw, unbridled violence that has nothing to do with rules or regulations. It’s personal. Every move, every strike, feels like it carries a deeper purpose, as if the blood on your hands is a long-overdue justice you’ve been waiting to exact.

Soap lets out a low whistle over comms, his voice thick with awe. “Screaming Jesus, she’s a one-woman army.”

Price doesn’t respond, his jaw set tight as he watches you tear through another wave of enemies. The reports weren’t just accurate—they were restrained. You’re more than what they described, more than what even he expected. And as the last of the traffickers are mopped up, bodies littering the docks like broken marionettes, Price realizes there’s no one alive tonight who’ll walk away with a different opinion.

Not of The Mercenary. Not of the storm she unleashed.

It’s not long before the docks finally fall silent, what with you tearing through the traffickers like a hot knife through butter like you did. The echoes of gunfire faded into the night as Price surveyed the aftermath—bodies strewn across the grimy concrete, the remnants of a trafficking ring laid to waste. His team moved like shadows, finishing up the sweep, checking corners, and clearing out the last stragglers. Everything was by the book, clean and efficient, the kind of op that Price had seen a hundred times before.

But there was something different this time, and it wasn’t just the bloodied bodies left behind. It was you.

You stood near the water’s edge, wiping blood from your knife with a rag, the same calm expression on your face as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. As if you hadn’t torn through armed men like they were made of paper, leaving only devastation in your wake. You didn’t even glance at the bodies or the carnage around you. To you, this was routine, just another mission. Another paycheck.

Price’s eyes narrowed as he watched you. This was the part where you’d usually disappear—head out for your next contract, vanish into the night like the ghost you were. It’s what mercenaries did. They moved from job to job, no loyalty, no ties, just the endless chase of money and violence. He expected you to do the same now, your work here done.

But as his team packed up, ready to head back to base, you didn’t move.

Price signaled for the team to regroup, his orders coming out in short, clipped bursts over the comms. His focus was on his men, but his thoughts were on you. You weren’t leaving. Why weren’t you leaving?

You boarded the transport with them, sitting in the back, quiet, composed. Pupils blown wide as if you were excited instead of bone tired like the rest of them.

Soap, sitting across from you, gave you a raised brow, clearly curious, but he kept his distance. No one spoke. Not even you, which was… odd. Too odd.

Price kept glancing your way during the ride back, suspicion gnawing at him. What was your game? There was no reason for you to stay. No reason for you to be here, surrounded by military personnel, under their scrutiny. Yet you were sitting there, casual as ever, your gear still drenched in blood, as if this was where you belonged.

When the transport rolled into the base, Price caught Ghost’s eye, the unspoken tension crackling between them. His second-in-command seemed as wary as he was, but neither voiced their concerns just yet. They couldn’t. Not without proof. Not without something more than a gut feeling.

As they disembarked, Price expected you to peel off, maybe hitch a ride to the nearest city. But you followed them into the heart of the base, your steps unhurried, your presence unnervingly calm. You weren’t rushing to leave. You were settling in. Like you intended to stay.

***

A few days had passed since the raid at the docks, and everything seemed to settle back into the usual rhythm at the base. On the surface, anyway. Price was back to his routine, briefing the team, debriefing them, overseeing the cleanup from the mission. The trafficking ring had been dismantled, their operations left in ruin, and the victims had been taken care of. Everything should’ve been straightforward.

But it wasn’t.

His instincts told him otherwise. Something was off.

You were still here.

Price had expected you to vanish the moment the job was done. That’s what mercenaries did—complete the contract, collect the payout, and disappear without a second thought. No attachments, no lingering. But it had been days, and you hadn’t left. You wandered the base, moved through the halls like you belonged here, like you had no intention of leaving.

Every time he spotted you, that same unease crept up his spine. You wore the same calm, composed expression, no sign of hurry or purpose. You engaged with his men like you were another soldier of his making passing comments and bantering, the occasional smirk that tugging at your lips when Soap or Gaz tried to strike up casual conversation. And while the others seemed to accept your presence without question, Price couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker lurked beneath your cool exterior.

It was late one night when he spotted you standing near the armory, inspecting some gear. No one else was around. The quiet of the base hummed in the background, punctuated only by the low buzz of security lights. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you. You didn’t notice him—or at least, you didn’t make it obvious that you had.

He could still hear the rumors from the mission. Ghost, Soap, Gaz—they all talked about the way you’d torn through the enemy like a storm, leaving bodies broken and bloodied in your wake. Brutal. Vicious. No mercy. The reports hadn’t done you justice. And yet, here you were, walking through their base like the aftermath of that massacre hadn’t left a mark on you.

Price had seen enough soldiers go through hell and come out the other side broken or hardened, scarred in ways that never truly healed. But you? There was nothing but cold precision in your every movement, as if all the violence and death you caused was just another day at work. That was what bothered him the most—how utterly unfazed you were. How dangerous that made you.

As you turned, spotting him in the doorway, that small, knowing smile curled across your lips. Like you knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the same smile you’d given after the mission, when you’d cleaned off your knife without so much as a glance at the carnage you’d left behind.

“Price,” you greeted, your tone light, casual, as if the two of you were old acquaintances.

He grunted in return, stepping into the room, crossing his arms. “Still here, I see.”

Your smile deepened, your eyes gleaming with amusement. “Didn’t know I had a deadline.”

“You don’t,” Price replied, though his voice was tight, clipped. “But most mercs don’t stick around after the job’s done.”

Price narrowed his eyes, watching the way you shrugged off his question with a casual, almost too-relaxed air. “I like the company,” you said, your voice smooth, unbothered, like someone who had nothing to hide. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

For someone in your line of work, you were too comfortable. Too at ease, lingering here long after the job was done. No mercenary sticks around just because they “like the company.” It didn’t add up.

He stared at you for a moment longer, your calm demeanor suddenly grating on him. And that’s when it clicked—the way you never seemed rushed to leave, the way your eyes tracked every movement in a room, like you were always assessing, calculating. This wasn’t about the company. It wasn’t even about the mission anymore.

Price could feel it in his gut, that same gnawing feeling that told him you were here for more than just the mission. You had a second objective, something that kept you close to them, waiting, watching.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d let something worse than any enemy into their midst. A rot, festering beneath the surface, quiet and patient. You were no ordinary mercenary. You were a plague, spreading through their ranks, waiting for the right moment to turn gangrenous and poison them all from within.

His jaw clenched as he met your gaze, refusing to let the unease show in his eyes. “What’s your real game here?”

For a long moment, you said nothing, just watched him with that same maddening composure. Slowly, your head tilted, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but it never touched your eyes.

“Curiosity, Captain. I’m simply curious.”

“Curious about what?” His voice was low, a deep rumble like distant thunder on the verge of a storm.

Instead of answering, you gave him that smile—a smile he knew all too well. He’d seen it before, on the faces of sociopaths who thrived on control. Lips pulled tight over teeth, but no warmth, no humanity behind the gaze.

A chill slid down his spine, and his fingers itched toward his gun. But he held steady, knowing that drawing it wouldn’t intimidate you. If anything, he had the unsettling suspicion it might amuse you instead.

***

Weeks passed, and you didn’t leave.

Price watched you like a hawk, waiting for the moment you’d pack up, chase down another contract, disappear like the mercenary you were. But you stayed. You drifted through their base like a shadow, always there but never fully integrated, always just on the periphery.

Every move you made was calculated, deliberate, and though no one said it outright, the entire team felt it. You were a presence; unsettling, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Like a lit candle you should keep an eye on less it be forgotten and burn your house down as a result.

Price had never felt this level of constant tension before. Not on long deployments, not during high-stakes missions. It wasn’t the enemy outside that kept him awake at night; it was you. The way you seemed to move through their ranks without ever fully being a part of them.

He stayed on edge, hyper-vigilant, like a coiled spring, knowing something was going to snap, but unsure of when or how. His senses were stretched thin, his patience even thinner.

It was like having a wolf among sheep, and worse, the sheep were growing comfortable with it.

One night, as Price sat alone in his office, eyes burning from lack of sleep, his head buzzing when there was a quiet knock on the door. It was Gaz, looking more awkward than usual.

“Sir, I thought you should know… Soap’s been, uh… spending time with her.” He didn’t say your name, but he didn’t have to. There was only one “her” that could cause this kind of unease.

Price’s stomach dropped. “Define ‘spending time,’ Sergeant.”

Gaz shifted uncomfortably. “They, uh… hooked up. Last night.”

Price’s hand clenched into a fist, knuckles going white against the desk. He didn’t want to believe it, but he could see the truth in Gaz’s eyes. The warning signs had been there. Soap had always been the bold one, reckless even, and you—well, you thrived on that. Price should’ve seen this coming.

His mind raced. Soap, of all people, had fallen into your web. He could only imagine how you’d spun it, lured him in with that seductive charm you wielded like a weapon. And now? Now one of his own was compromised, and he could feel the situation spiraling out of his control.

Price dismissed Gaz with a terse nod, and the second the door closed, he slammed his fist down on the desk.

This wasn’t just about Soap being reckless or stupid. It was about you. Staying on base for weeks without any clear reason, keeping everyone on edge. And now, with Soap tangled up in whatever game you were playing, it was like watching a slow poison seep into the unit.

He stood up, jaw clenched as he paced the room, trying to think. He couldn’t let this go on. He couldn’t afford to be patient anymore. Whatever your endgame was, you had already begun to rot away at the heart of his team.

***

Price didn’t sleep that night. He paced his office, mind racing, piecing together every moment from the past few weeks. Every time he’d caught your eye lingering on him, every smile that felt more like a test than a gesture of goodwill. Now, with Soap wrapped up in your web, it was clear that this wasn’t just his paranoia. You had an agenda, and he had let you into their midst.

The next morning, Price called a meeting. The men gathered in the briefing room, and he could feel the shift in the air as soon as you entered. All eyes gravitated toward you. You moved like you always did—fluid, confident, unbothered. Soap sat across the table, his gaze drifting to you more than it should, and Price’s jaw tightened.

He began to speak, his voice sharp as a knife. “We’re moving out tonight. Intel says there’s a shipment coming in—drugs, arms, the usual. We’re going to shut it down.” The plan wasn’t anything new—standard sweep and seizure. But it was the underlying tension in the room that couldn’t be ignored. Price’s words were meant to shift the focus, to drag his team back to where they needed to be. But as he spoke, he caught you watching him, your expression unreadable, a flicker of amusement in your eyes that sent a chill down his spine.

Once the briefing ended, the men dispersed, except for Soap, who lingered by you, grinning like he was in on some private joke. Price stared at him for a moment longer than necessary before heading out, fighting the rising frustration in his gut.

Later on after finishing up the mission, Price sat in his office, the faint hum of activity echoing through the hallways. His door cracked open slightly, letting in the soft shuffle of footsteps, the sound unmistakable.

“Captain.”

Your voice, low and almost playful, cut through the silence like a blade. He didn’t turn to look at you. He couldn’t trust himself to keep his composure.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” you continued, stepping further into the room. He could hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you. “Everything alright?”

Price clenched his jaw. “I was just focused on the mission.”

“That so?” You circled around to stand in front of his desk, leaning against it casually, too casually for his liking. Your presence was overwhelming, filling the small space like a thick fog. “You don’t seem like the type to get distracted, Captain.”

“And you seem like the type that enjoys creating distractions.” He finally met your gaze, and the way you smiled in response sent a shiver of unease down his spine. You were toying with him, and worse, you knew he knew it.

“Why are you still here?” Price asked, his voice low, controlled.

Your smile widened slightly. “I told you before—curiosity.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You don’t stay in one place this long for curiosity.”

You didn’t flinch at his tone, didn’t seem fazed at all. Instead, you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing as you regarded him like a predator assessing prey. “I’ve spent time in many places. Ask around—check with units in Marawi, Mogadishu, Kandahar… even Berlin. I always seem to stick around longer than planned, don’t I?” You laughed lightly, shaking your head like it was an amusing coincidence. “But then again, maybe they never saw it either. Maybe you’re the only one smart enough to see the bigger picture.”

Price’s pulse quickened. Every location you listed, every unit you mentioned, could easily be verified. You knew that. But it was the way you laid it out—so casually, like you weren’t even concerned—that made him falter. Like you wanted him to check, knowing full well what he’d find. Hadn’t you been acting the same way there too? Charming your way through, making yourself indispensable, all the while threading yourself deeper into their fabric until it was too late to unravel you?

“You can ask, Captain,” you purred, leaning in just a little closer, the air between you suffocating with tension. “But you won’t find anything out of the ordinary. Because, if you start seeing ghosts in every corner… well, maybe the problem isn’t me…”

You trailed off meaningfully and Price didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was racing, every instinct screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. You had stayed too long, ingratiated yourself too easily, and now Soap was involved. And even though he wanted to believe it was just a lapse in judgment on Soap’s part, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all part of a larger plan. And yet…

“You know,” you said softly, almost thoughtfully, “trust is such a delicate thing. Once it’s broken, it’s hard to repair. You start questioning everything. Everyone.”

The way you said it made Price’s skin crawl. You were baiting him, pushing him to the edge, and he was dangerously close to snapping.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded, standing up, fists clenched.

You didn’t back down. If anything, you seemed to enjoy the tension, your smile sharpening into something more predatory. “Nothing at all, Captain. Just… enjoying my time. Having fun.”

Price took a step closer, his voice a low growl. “This isn’t a game.”

You tilted your head slightly, the smile never leaving your face. “I never said it was, Captain. I’m afraid you’re reading too far into things. Seeing shadows where there isn’t any.”

Price’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, caught in a web of uncertainty and suspicion. He didn’t trust you. Hell, he didn’t even know if he could trust his own men anymore, not after what happened with Soap.

But as much as he wanted to get you off his base, to throw you out and wash his hands of this whole mess, he couldn’t. Not yet. Because something told him that whatever you were really after, it wasn’t just Soap. And until he knew for sure what your endgame was, he had no choice but to keep you close—and pray that he hadn’t just let a fox into the henhouse.

As you turned to leave, Price couldn’t help but feel like he’d just lost a battle he hadn’t even realized he was fighting. “Sweet dreams, Captain. Good night.”

***

Price hung up the phone, staring at the receiver as if it could offer answers to the storm raging in his mind. Eight months. You’d lingered for eight whole months after your contract ended in Berlin, weaving yourself into the fabric of another unit’s daily routine, and just like the Colonel had said, you left without a trace of anything suspicious. No incidents. No trouble. Just gone, as suddenly as you had come.

But the Colonel’s words echoed in his mind: “I thought the same like you, Captain, Ja. I had my eyes on her the whole time, thought something was happening… but nothing ever came of it. She is slippery, that one, but not a drop of blut was out of place when she went away.”

Price exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, fingers massaging his temples. Eight months. He should’ve been reassured, should’ve felt some relief hearing that someone else, someone just as seasoned, had gone through the same ordeal. But instead, it gnawed at him, deepening the pit of uncertainty growing in his gut. If nothing happened then… why did every nerve in his body scream at him now?

He’d been in the field for decades, lived through hells most men wouldn’t survive, and his instincts had kept him alive through it all. But now? Now he was doubting himself. Questioning his own judgment, wondering if the years had worn him down, made him paranoid. Had it all finally caught up to him? Maybe the pressure, the decades of battle scars, were finally showing. Yet, every fiber of his being still rebelled against the idea of ignoring what was so blatantly wrong.

No, he thought. My instincts are never wrong. He had learned to trust that gut feeling, the one that separated him from the men who didn’t make it.

The door creaked open, and Ghost stepped in, interrupting the maelstrom of thoughts swirling in Price’s head. He stood there, imposing as always, but there was something different in his expression. Price sat up straighter, bracing himself.

“Sir,” Ghost started, his voice steady but with an edge of uncertainty, unusual for the Lieutenant.

“What is it?” Price asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“The mercenary,” Ghost clarified, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She took part in a training drill today with some of the recruits.”

Price blinked. That wasn’t unusual in itself. You’d been weaving in and out of different areas for weeks now, always showing up in unexpected places, like you were trying to familiarize yourself with every inch of the base. But the tension in Ghost’s stance told Price there was more to the story.

“What happened?” Price asked, already feeling a creeping dread in the back of his mind.

“One of the recruits made a mistake. Big one,” Ghost continued. “Nearly cost him his life. Got caught up in a malfunction on the rappel during the high-altitude training drill.”

Price’s heart skipped a beat. “And?”

“She saved him,” Ghost said simply. “Reacted faster than anyone else. Snapped the rope, pulled him out before he hit the deck.”

Price was silent for a moment, digesting the information. “She saved him?”

Ghost nodded. “Yeah. Kid would’ve been dead if not for her. She didn’t just follow protocol. She handled it like she’d done it a hundred times before.”

Price leaned back in his chair again, his mind whirling. You’d saved a recruit’s life, a move that should have earned you praise. But all he could feel was a deepening sense of confusion. You were smart—too smart, maybe. Every move you made, every little gesture, seemed calculated. Even this.

“Did she say anything afterward?” Price asked, narrowing his eyes at Ghost.

“Not much,” Ghost replied. “Just told him to ‘pay better attention next time.’ Then walked off like nothing happened.”

Price nodded, though the pit in his stomach widened. You were integrating yourself even more, and not just through casual conversation or staying on base. Now, you were actively participating in training, putting yourself in situations where people’s lives depended on you. Perfectly timed, Price thought. You knew how to make yourself indispensable, a hero even. It was the perfect strategy—who would suspect someone who just saved a recruit’s life?

But it only added to Price’s unease. You weren’t just hanging around. You were embedding yourself deeper into their operations, gaining trust in subtle, almost insidious ways. The other soldiers would start seeing you as one of them now, and that was exactly what Price had been afraid of. You were smart, calculated, and every move you made had a purpose.

Ghost noticed Price’s silence, his usual unreadable expression giving way to a flicker of concern. “You think she’s up to something?”

“I don’t know,” Price admitted, his voice rough. “But I’m damn sure we’ve let something in. And if we don’t figure it out soon, it’s going to spread.” He glanced at Ghost, knowing he needed his team more than ever. “Keep an eye on her. And make sure the others do too. If she’s playing us… I don’t want her to slip through our fingers.”

Ghost gave a curt nod before turning to leave, but Price didn’t feel any better. The pieces were moving, the game had started, and you had somehow made yourself both player and wildcard. And if Price wasn’t careful, you were going to turn everything on its head.

***

Unfortunately for the growing alarm bells ringing— screaming— in the back of his head, Price couldn’t deny the shift that had taken place after you saved Private Merrick’s life. The act, as timely as it was heroic, had made you a near instant legend on base. Where there had once been wariness, there was now admiration. Distrust had given way to camaraderie. The mercenary who’d sparked suspicion had, overnight, become one of them.

The recruits, green and eager to prove themselves, were especially captivated. They hung on every word you said, their wide-eyed awe palpable as you walked among them, offering tips, pointers, and more often than not, a sly smile that sent them stumbling over themselves. Soap, naturally, had been quick to follow. Gaz too, now. Wherever you went, they seemed to hover nearby, as if drawn in by some invisible thread you were masterfully tugging.

They weren’t the only ones. The seasoned soldiers, men hardened by battle, found themselves drawn in as well, their initial skepticism melting into begrudging respect. You were seen everywhere now: the gym, the shooting range, combat drills, simulations. You seamlessly inserted yourself into every facet of their routine, giving advice, correcting form, all with a confidence and casual ease that was impossible to ignore.

They ate it up: your presence, your guidance, the way you seemed to understand every nuance of warfare as if you’d written the manual yourself. And through it all, that same playful amusement never left your expression, like you were indulging them in some elaborate game only you truly understood.

For most, that was enough. The charm, the beauty, the undeniable skill, all of it combined into a perfect storm that left the men blind to the subtle machinations beneath the surface. But not Price. And not Ghost.

No, for Price, the growing crowd of admirers only deepened the unease gnawing at him. You were too good at this. Too adept at weaving yourself into the fabric of their base, ingratiating yourself with the men until even the most seasoned soldiers saw you as one of them. It should have been reassuring, knowing that so many eyes were on you, watching your every move. But it wasn’t.

Because Price knew that the more you were seen, the more you were in control. And control, he realized, was exactly what you wanted.

He’d watched you long enough now to know there was no accident in the way you operated. Every interaction, every gesture, was carefully measured, designed to draw people closer while keeping them just far enough from the truth. They saw the hero who saved lives, the expert who could outshoot and outfight most of them. They didn’t see the subtle manipulation, the way you orchestrated their perception of you with all the grace of a master conductor.

Price watched it unfold daily, helpless to stop it, and it unnerved him. You were a serpent in their midst, coiled and waiting, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

It was that uncertainty, the sense that there was more beneath the surface, that had him on edge. He tried to shake it off, to tell himself he was overthinking, that his paranoia was getting the best of him. But his instincts, the same instincts that had kept him alive for decades, refused to quiet.

And then there was Ghost. Silent, observant Ghost, who had taken to watching you with the same wariness that Price felt but couldn’t yet name. The two of them were the last holdouts, the only ones still resisting the pull of your charm. But for how long?

One evening, as Price sat in his office, the weight of sleepless nights and gnawing doubts pressing heavily on him, he heard the now-familiar sound of footsteps approaching his door. He didn’t need to look up to know it was you. There was something distinctive about the way you moved—too smooth, too deliberate.

“Captain,” your voice purred, cutting through the stillness of the room. Slid through the air, low and laced with amusement.

He didn’t bother to respond immediately, keeping his eyes on his paperwork (though his focus had long since abandoned him), hoping you’d take the hint. But of course, you didn’t. You never did. You weren’t one for leaving things alone.

You closed the door behind you and stepped further into the room, the space seeming to shrink around your presence. Thick and suffocating, creeping in the room like smoke. The sweetest perfume. “You’ve been keeping to yourself,” you observed, your tone light, playful, as if you were speaking to an old friend. Teasing. This was all a game to you. He knew it was. He knew you enjoyed every second of it.

“I’m busy,” Price muttered, not looking up from the papers scattered across his desk. Jaw tight. Molar aching. He could feel you watching him. Dissecting him with those sharp, calculating eyes. The room felt smaller with you in it.

“Busy with what? Watching me?” The challenge was evident in your voice, a hint of amusement curling the edges of your words. You took slow, deliberate steps towards his desk. Through the shadows. A panther hunting prey.

Bringing you here was a mistake but Laswell had insisted, and Price— ever loyal to her judgment— had conceded, like always.

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Price’s grip on the pen tightened. It took everything in him not to snap, not to lash out in a way that you’d only twist into some game. He could feel his pulse quicken, an involuntary reaction to the control you wielded so effortlessly.

“Why are you still here?” he finally asked, his voice low and controlled. Brittle. Like rust flaking off metal.

“I’ve told you,” you began, leaning forward just enough to invade his space. You smiled, that maddening smile, like you knew exactly what you were doing. “I’m curious.” Tone dripping with false innocence.

Price isn’t a religious man but even he knows mythology all around the world say the same thing sometimes: a monster that takes on the shape of beautiful women to lure men in and bleed them dry. Siren. Succubus. Lamia. Jorogumo. Nymphs. You.

Price didn’t buy it. Couldn’t buy it. “Curiosity doesn’t make you stay this long.”

You smiled, that same infuriating, empty smile you always gave. “You really think I’m up to something, don’t you?”

He met your gaze, and for the briefest moment, he saw something flicker in your eyes. Amusement. Triumph. You know, he thought. You know exactly what you’re doing, and you’re enjoying it. The way you were looking at him— it wasn’t innocent at all.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Price asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your eyes glinted with something darker and the air felt heavier. “What do you mean?”

“You linger. Stick around bases after your contracts end. Like in Berlin,” Price pressed, his voice low but firm. “Eight months. That’s what they said. And nothing happened, right?”

Your smile widened, eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “Is that what’s bothering you, Captain? That nothing happened?”

Price’s heart pounded in his chest. You were pushing him. Toying with him, manipulating every word to plant more doubt, more confusion.

“You can call them, you know,” you said, leaning even closer. “Berlin. Warsaw. Cairo. Ask around. I’ve stayed on bases longer than I should have, but nothing ever happens. It’s just you, Captain. Just your paranoia.”

He stared at you, struggling to keep his composure, but you’d seen it. That flicker of doubt. That split second of hesitation. And you pounced on it.

“You’re getting tired, aren’t you?” you whispered. “Decades of service. Constant vigilance. Maybe it’s wearing you down. Maybe you’re imagining things.”

Price clenched his fists, feeling the tension coil in his muscles. He was tired, but his instincts had always been his guide. Yet you were so effortlessly making him doubt them.

“Or,” you continued, voice low and dripping with venomous sweetness, “maybe you’re right. Maybe I am up to something. But if that’s the case… what are you going to do about it?”

Price’s blood ran cold. You were challenging him, daring him to act, to confront you. And all the while, you wore that same damn smile, the one that made him feel like he was the one losing control.

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming as you stepped around the desk, slowly closing the distance between him and you. “You really do think I’m up to something, don’t you?”

Price leaned back slightly, his breath shallow, but he stayed rooted to his chair. You were close now, too close. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the metallic tang of his anxiety.

Without a word, you reached out, your fingers grazing lightly over his shoulder. Price stiffened, the warmth of your touch sending a shock through his system. You leaned in, your breath brushing against his neck, and whispered, “You look tired, Captain.”

He wanted to move, to shake you off, but his body betrayed him. The exhaustion weighed down his limbs, and before he could stop you, your hands were kneading gently into the knots in his shoulders.

“Carrying the weight of the world, aren’t you?” you cooed softly, fingers working into the tension, the pressure just enough to make him falter. “Must be exhausting. No wonder you’re starting to see things… imagining things.”

Price gritted his teeth, fighting against the wave of fatigue that was crashing over him, but your touch was so… disarming. Slowly, without realizing it, he found himself relaxing under your hands, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. You felt it too—the way his resistance was crumbling, brick by brick.

“That’s it, Captain,” you murmured, your voice laced with false concern as your hands worked lower, pressing into the tight muscles of his back. “You’ve been doing this for so long. Decades of service. Always on edge. Always watching. Don’t you ever just… let go?”

Price’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he forced them open again, fighting to keep control, but the words wouldn’t come. You’d stepped even closer now, leaning against his desk, nearly perched in his lap, your breath warm against his ear.

“I can help, you know,” you whispered, your lips so close they brushed against his skin. “Take some of that weight off your shoulders.”

Price swallowed hard, the tension in the air palpable. He knew what you were doing, knew this was just another layer of your manipulation, but his body wasn’t responding the way he wanted it to. His arms felt heavy, his breathing shallow. Your hands, now on his neck, massaged with an expert’s precision, coaxing him into compliance.

“I’ve been around, Captain,” you continued, your voice soft, hypnotic. “Berlin. Cairo. So many places where they thought like you—always suspicious, always looking for something that wasn’t there. And do you know what happened?”

You leaned in closer, your lips grazing the edge of his jaw, your breath sending shivers down his spine.

“Nothing.”

The word hung in the air, and Price’s head swam, caught between the fog of exhaustion and the insidiousness of your touch.

“I’m not the problem, Captain,” you whispered, your hand tracing down his chest, fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of his shirt. “You are. You’ve been at this too long. You don’t know when to stop. When to trust.”

Price clenched his fists at his sides, willing his body to move, to push you away, but he was trapped between his own fatigue and the intoxicating effect of your presence.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you murmured, voice almost tender now. “I’m here because I think you’re special. Smart. Worthy of my attention. But you need to let go. Just a little. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

Your words wove their way into his mind, insidious and slow, planting seeds of doubt. His instincts, the ones that had kept him alive for so long, screamed at him to resist, to see through the haze you were creating. But his body was weak. His mind clouded. And you were so close, so warm, so soft.

Before he could speak, your fingers slid up to his jaw, gently turning his face to meet yours. The way you looked at him—predatory, with a flicker of something darker—made his breath hitch.

And in that moment, he realized just how far he’d fallen. How deep into your web he’d been pulled.

***

The feel of your skin beneath his fingers is rapturous. It’s been too long since he’s touched a woman like this. Years. Decades, maybe. Not since he was a recruit. Maybe not even then.

Your skin is so warm it sears him, like his fingertips are burning against molten caramel, soft and yielding. He bites along the curve of your inner thigh, and the sensation explodes in his mind, melting away whatever resistance he once had.

Electricity hums through him, short-circuiting the alarm bells that had been screaming in the back of his head for weeks. Blessed silence fills the space where doubt and suspicion had lived ever since he saw your dossier. He doesn’t understand you; he’s not sure anyone truly does— but this… this he understands.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your pants are gone, discarded in the blur of heated moments. His head spins like he’s been drinking the strongest liquor, intoxicated, consumed by the heat between you. He’s drowning, but for the first time in weeks, he’s at peace with it.

How did he get here? You’d walked into his office barely twenty minutes ago, and now…

Now.

His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with a roughness that makes him groan. The sight of you, glistening, dripping… it’s almost too much.

“Fuck,” the word rumbles from his throat, thick and heavy, like a storm rolling in on a sweltering summer night. His body feels like it’s been set on fire, his blood ignited, burning like the tips of his cigars.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers teasing along your slick folds. The sensation beneath his touch is almost overwhelming— sticky, wet, and so incredibly wanting.

“Fuck,” he murmurs again, the word dragging from his lips as his mouth waters. He can’t stop himself, not anymore. He leans forward, driven by instinct, by a deep seated need to taste you, to devour you.

The taste of your cunt floods his senses, richer than any wine, sweeter than any ambrosia. It’s forbidden, like a taste of something divine, and as his eyes roll back, he’s lost in you.

His hands grip tighter, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as if anchoring himself to the moment. The world tilts, his mind spinning as he presses his mouth deeper, dragging his tongue through your wetness. The heat of you, the taste—it’s all-consuming.

The low hum of his growl vibrates against your core, sending a ripple through you that makes you shudder. Every fiber of his being is alive, sparking, like he’s teetering on the edge of something cataclysmic. His control, usually so ironclad, is slipping with every pulse of your body beneath his.

You moan, soft but sharp, and it ignites something primal in him. He grips harder, pulling you closer, deeper into his mouth, losing himself in the taste of you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him on, and he obliges without thought, driven by a need that eclipses every other instinct.

His mind is quiet. Blissfully, achingly quiet. No questions, no doubts. Just this—your warmth, your scent, your taste. His world narrows to this moment, this singular point of contact where you meet him, where everything else fades away.

He groans again, the sound muffled against you, and it vibrates through his chest like thunder. Every flick of his tongue feels like fire, every second stretching out into something timeless, endless. He’s lost, drowning, and he’s never felt so damn content in the suffocating pull of it all.

Price doesn’t remember how it started, doesn’t remember why it even began. All he knows now is that he’s here, with you, and the rest of the world is a distant blur, a forgotten consequence of this moment.

His mouth works against your cunt, slow but deliberate, every motion designed to unravel you further. Your gasps, your shudders—they fuel him.

His hands grip tighter, anchoring you in place, holding you still against his mouth. He’s seen your strength, knows how easily you could fight him off if you wanted. But you’re yielding beneath him, pliant in his grasp. Submissive in a way that twists something primal inside him.

He holds you firm, his mouth relentless, dragging you closer to the edge with every flick of his tongue. His lips press against your clit, a reverent kiss, sucking gently but with purpose, driving you mad with sensation.

“Price—oh, God,” you gasp, your voice ragged, hands clutching his hair, tugging, pulling. But you don’t push him away. You pull him closer, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as he coaxes you to the brink.

Your body trembles, thighs shaking, and he knows you’re close. He can feel it in the way your muscles tighten, hear it in the way your breath hitches. And then you’re coming undone, keening above him as your orgasm crashes over you.

Price watches, captivated, as you fall apart. It’s a revelation, the sight of you trembling, unraveling beneath his touch, the taste of you flooding his senses. He drinks it in, savoring every drop, letting it fill him, consume him. There’s something intoxicating in it, a sweetness that lingers, turning his thoughts to static.

He pulls back when he’s had his fill, sitting up, licking his lips as though he’s just finished a feast. The sight of you, dazed, eyes half-lidded, makes something feral stir in his chest.

You slither into his lap, and despite the warning bells starting back up in the back of his mind—viper, viper, viper—he lets you. He can’t resist, not when you fit so perfectly against him, not when your warmth seeps into his skin like a drug.

His belt clinks as his pants fall open, and you smirk, that maddening, teasing smirk, the one that makes him want to either kiss you or strangle you. “That looks painful.”

His cock is painfully hard, the tip flushed, leaking, staining his boxers. Veins bulge along the length, and he’s never felt so desperate, so needy. “Because of you,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

Your smile widens, something wicked and knowing behind it, like you’re a siren luring him deeper into your trap. (Siren. Succubus. Lamia. Jorogumo. Nymphs. You.) “Want me to take care of it, Captain?”

You roll your hips, your slick folds sliding over him, making him jerk up involuntarily. His breath catches, and he nods, unable to form words, his need too great. “Please,” he rasps.

You coo softly, mocking him with your sweetness, teasing him with your control. But then you line yourself up, sinking down slowly, torturously, and he can’t stop the groan that rumbles from his chest.

His head falls back, body arching as the heat of you envelops him, tight and wet and perfect. It feels like coming home, and for a moment, he doesn’t care about the alarms in his head, doesn’t care about the danger you represent. He just needs this—needs you.

You’re not human—maybe you never were. A demon wrapped in the skin of an angel, something sweet and deadly. Sugar and spice for the righteous, poison for the wicked. Karma, incarnate. It’s no wonder Price can’t figure you out, can’t unravel the threads that make you. You’re his punishment, his purgatory, for all the blood on his hands. His salvation, his reward for all the lives he’s saved.

Not quite heaven, not quite hell.

But a taste of both.

He groans as you take him deeper, his mind slipping, thoughts unraveling with every inch of you that sinks down. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, desperate to ground himself, but the way you move—slow, deliberate—makes him feel like he’s losing a part of himself with each second.

The tight, wet heat of you is everything he didn’t know he craved. It’s too much, yet not enough. His vision blurs as you rock against him, your body molding to his, every roll of your hips a deliberate push closer to the edge. You’re in control, and he’s too far gone to even pretend otherwise.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained. He can’t hold on much longer, can’t stop the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter inside him. “You—”

You smirk, that wicked smile playing on your lips as you lean forward, your breath ghosting over his ear. “What’s wrong, Captain? Can’t handle a little pressure?”

Your voice, soft and sweet, twists something inside him, tightening the knot of pleasure and frustration until it’s unbearable. He’s never felt this out of control, never let anyone take the reins like this. But with you, it’s different. You’ve slithered into his mind, into his body, like a drug, and now he’s addicted.

“I can handle you,” he growls, hands flexing against your skin. But even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. You’ve got him, mind and body, and you know it.

You hum softly, running a hand through his hair, tugging lightly, making him groan again. “We’ll see about that, Captain.”

The way you say it, so sure of yourself, so calm, sends a shiver down his spine. You’re toying with him, just like you’ve been doing since you arrived. But now, he’s not sure if he cares. Not when you feel this good.

And that’s the danger, isn’t it? The way you make him want to let go, to stop thinking, to stop questioning. The way you turn his paranoia into a dull hum, background noise compared to the pleasure of you wrapped around him.

You lean in closer, lips brushing against his jaw, your breath warm against his skin. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll take good care of you.”

His breath stutters, fingers tightening on your hips as you start to move again, slow and deliberate, dragging out every second, every sensation, until he feels like he’s going to lose his mind.

The tension inside of him is unbearable, the coil of pleasure so tight it’s threatening to snap. Your hips roll against his, slow, deliberate. Each movement sends shockwaves of sensation through him. His breath is ragged, his control unraveling by the second, catching in his throat at the pressure inside of him builds.

Every part of him is on fire, and he’s teetering on the edge, so close, too close.

“God— fuck,” he groans. Half bitten off words is all he can manage, a guttural rasp as his head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut. You grind down harder, nails dragging across his chest, drawing out the sound again, like you’re pulling his soul from his body.

“You’re close, aren’t you, Captain?” Your voice is a soft purr, a taunting whisper against his ear.

He can’t answer, can’t even think beyond the need to chase his release. Every nerve in his body is lit up and burning with desire. All he knows is that he’s teetering on the brink, and you’re the one holding him there, savoring every second before you let him fall.

Then, with a flick of your hips and a roll of your body, he’s gone. Exploding into pleasure so intense it leaves him gasping, his grip on you tightening as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to reality. He’s lost in the sensation of it, his mind blank, his senses overwhelmed by the feel of you, the taste of you still lingering on his lips. His orgasm crashes over him like a wave, drowning him in sensations, and for a long moment, everything fades— every thought, every suspicion, every doubt. There’s only you.

You watch him fall apart beneath you, a satisfied smile curving your lips as you ride out his release before stilling in his lap.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, the feeling of you still wrapped around him, tight and warm, your body molded to his like you were made for him. His head is spinning, mind foggy, but for the first time in weeks, he feels calm. The constant hum of paranoia, the nagging suspicion, all of it fades into the background, drowned out by the euphora still coursing through him.

His body relaxes beneath yours, muscles going slack as exhaustion takes over after weeks and weeks of very little sleep, and when you finally slip off his lap, he barely registers the loss. His mind, dulled and heavy, floats in the remnants of pleasure. Aware only enough to adjust his softened cock back in his pants with trembling fingers, before his hand falls to the side.

He feels your lips against his temple, something sweet and chaste and not at all like you, humming in his ear with that sultry purr of yours. “Sweet dreams. Goodbye Captain.”

He hums in a reply, too far gone in his post orgasm exhaustion to form words. His mind, dulled and heavy, floats in the remnants of pleasure, blissfully unaware.

He hears you slip out quietly, leaving him slumped over his desk in the dim light of his office, door closing softly behind you. For a moment, the world is silent, and Price drifts into sleep, still half dressed, lost in the afterglow.

***

The next morning, Price wakes up to the harsh sunlight filtering through his blinds, the dull ache of his body reminding him of last night’s encounter. He stretches, feeling the tension in his muscles, and his mind starts to replay fragments of the night before. But as he blinks awake, something feels… off.

Something stirs in his chest. A sinking feeling, like a weight dropping in his gut. He sits up, rubbing a hand over his face, the disquiet creeping in around the edges of his consciousness.

Price frowns, pushing the chair back and standing, a strange sense of urgency crawling under his skin. He grabs his jacket, heads for the door, and steps out into the hallway, his footsteps heavy with the weight of something unnamed.

The hallway feels different this morning—quieter. There’s a strange hush over the base, a weight pressing down on everyone that Price can feel deep in his bones. His instincts scream at him that something’s wrong. He moves briskly, trying to shake off the gnawing sense of unease as he makes his way through the building. The recruits he passes look subdued, heads down, expressions uncharacteristically grim. Even Soap, who’s usually animated in the mornings, sits off to the side in the mess hall, arms crossed over his chest, a deep frown etched into his face.

Price’s gut tightens.

He slows his pace as he approaches, his eyes narrowing at Soap’s slouched posture and the way the men seem more reserved, more… off. Something’s happened. The air feels heavier.

“Soap,” Price calls out, voice gravelly, but not quite as sharp as usual. He’s already beginning to piece things together, though he doesn’t like where the thoughts are leading.

Soap glances up, and for a moment, the younger man looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, something biting, maybe, or sarcastic, but instead, he just shakes his head, lips pressed tight in a line. “She’s gone, Cap.”

Price blinks, his chest tightening as the words register. Gone? His mind scrambles to process it, but there’s a distinct lack of clarity. He swallows hard, forcing himself to stay calm as he approaches Soap’s table, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Gone?” he asks slowly, though he already knows the answer. “What do you mean, gone?”

“She left early this morning. Ghost saw her off. Said she was chasing another contract,” Soap mutters, the disappointment clear in his tone. He doesn’t look at Price, just keeps staring at his half-eaten tray of food like he’s trying to make sense of something himself.

Price’s blood runs cold. Left. Another contract.

The events of the night before crash over him like a wave, the warmth of your skin against his, your whispered words, the way you’d coiled around him like a serpent, squeezing, suffocating. Goodbye, Captain.

Not goodnight—goodbye.

His heart stutters. You’re gone. And he let you slip away, not realizing that you were never planning to stay. That sinking feeling from earlier becomes a weight in his chest, pulling him down, down into the realization that he’s been played. He let his guard down, let himself get pulled into your orbit, and now… now it’s too late.

Price spins on his heel, already searching for Ghost. He finds him not far off, standing by the exit like a statue, arms crossed, eyes hidden beneath his mask.

“Ghost.” Price’s voice is hard, commanding. “Tell me what happened.”

Ghost gives him a brief look, unreadable as always beneath the mask, but something about his posture tells Price that he’s aware of how bad this looks. “She left around 0500,” Ghost says, voice flat. “Said she had another contract lined up. No fanfare. Just… left.”

No fanfare. Just like that. Price feels the bottom of his stomach drop.

He should’ve known. You’d been toying with him, leading him down a path he should’ve seen coming from miles away. You’d gotten into his head, played him like a fiddle, and now you were gone.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s lost whatever game you were playing, and the worst part is, he doesn’t even know what the stakes were. He doesn’t know why you played the game, only that you won. You took what you wanted from him, left him reeling, and now… now he’s standing here, empty-handed, with nothing to show for it but this gnawing sense of failure.

Ghost shifts his weight slightly, glancing at Price as if waiting for a response. But what is there to say? The infamous Captain Price had been outplayed, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it now.

“Dammit,” Price mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He feels the weight of exhaustion settle over him, heavier than before. He wants to be angry, to shout, to curse your name for what you’ve done. But all he can feel is that deep, gnawing sense of loss, like he’s let something vital slip through his fingers.

The base feels emptier without you.

***

Seven months later, the world had moved on, but Price hadn’t.

He tried to bury it; your games, the night you left, the way you’d gotten into his head and twisted everything around him. But the ghost of your presence lingered, always just beneath the surface. He told himself it didn’t matter, that they’d never cross paths again, that you were just a fleeting memory in a long line of battles fought and lost.

Until today.

The mission had been straightforward, at least on paper. 141 had been tasked with securing a high-value target in a remote compound somewhere in the Balkans, a dangerous op that left little room for error. They’d expected resistance, expected threats from the usual suspects— mercs, rival PMCs, all of the scum that rise to the surface during geopolitica conflict. But what they hadn’t expected was you, leaning against the wall with that infuriating, knowing smirk. Casual, like you’d been expecting them. Like this was all some elaborate setup for a reunion you’d orchestrated.

“Well, well, well.” Your voice cut through the silence, playful and dripping with amusement. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”

Price’s blood ran cold. His grip on his rifle tightened, every muscle in his body tensing at the sight of you. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were flanking him, their expressions unreadable, but Price could feel the tension rolling off them in waves. No one said a word.

You tilted your head, watching them like a cat watches a cornered mouse. “This is starting to feel like one of those Facebook posts,” you mused, laughter lacing your tone. “You know the ones—‘What would you do if you ended up in a room with everyone you’ve ever had sex with?’” Your eyes slid lazily over them, glinting with amusement as you watch their reactions. Soap stiffens, turning a shade darker. Gaz shifts awkwardly. Ghost remains as still as ever, but everyone can see the tension vibrating through him. (Price knew about Soap, but he feels dread crawl up his spine when he realizes Gaz and Ghost fell for you’re games too) “Guess we’re about to find out.”

“Shut up,” Price growled, voice low, dangerous. But you just laughed, pushing off the wall and sauntering forward, not an ounce of fear in your eyes.

“Temper, temper, Captain,” you tutted, waving a finger at him. “You’re not still upset about our little game, are you? I told you goodbye, didn’t I?”

Price’s hands flexed around his weapon, his mind racing as he struggled to stay composed. He wanted answers—he needed answers. And this time, he wasn’t going to let you slip away without giving them.

“You played us,” he said, voice tight, barely controlled. “You got inside our heads. Why?”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a smile that was all teeth. “Why?” you echoed, feigning innocence. “Because I was bored, Captain. You lot were supposed to be the best, the infamous 141. Special operators, men who could match me, maybe even outsmart me.” You paused, eyes gleaming with amusement as you scanned the group. “But you didn’t, did you? Not a single one of you. Men are all the same, no matter how many wars they’ve fought.”

“Bored?” Soap’s voice cracked through the tension, sharp and disbelieving. “You messed with us because you were bored?”

You shrugged, unapologetic. “What else was I supposed to do? I’m the smartest person in the room, in any room. I’m not just saying that to brag. I was tested and my IQ’s through the roof. I’m a WAIS-certified genius with an Mensa membership. A prodigy if you will.” You tap the side of your head with the muzzle of your gun, flashing them a knowing grin. “You have to understand, that gets tedious after a while. I need something stimulating. You lot, you were supposed to be different. I thought you might actually pose a challenge.”

Price’s stomach churned at your words, bile rising in his throat. He didn’t want to believe it—that it had all been some sick game, that you’d toyed with them, used them, used him just to stave off your boredom.

“Turns out,” you continued, sighing dramatically, “you’re just like everyone else. Predictable. Boring. Disappointing. Men get angry, men get frustrated, men think with their cocks more than their brains, and they don’t stop to think. I even warned you in my dossier, didn’t I? ‘Psychological warfare’s my preferred method’, and yet none of you caught on. So really, you’ve only got yourselves to blame.”

Price’s vision tunneled, his pulse pounding in his ears. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and for the first time in months, he felt the overwhelming need to wipe that smug look off your face.

“You’re a piece of work,” Ghost muttered, voice low and rough. He hadn’t moved from his position, but Price could feel the weight of his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

You flashed Ghost a grin, unaffected. “I warned you, didn’t I? If you couldn’t see it coming, that’s on you.”

“You think this is some kind of joke?” Price’s voice was dangerously low, fury barely contained. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t believe how easily you were dismissing everything that had happened.

But you weren’t phased, not in the slightest. You took a step closer, your eyes glittering with amusement. “I think it’s hilarious, Captain. You were all so certain you could figure me out, so sure that you’d stay one step ahead. But I was always ahead, from the very start.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and Price’s fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to lash out, to scream at you, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. You’d already won, and you both knew it. The game was over, and all that was left was the bitter taste of defeat.

Soap growls, taking a step forward, but Price raises a hand to stop him. His mind races. Every interaction, every word, every glance you’d shared over those months— it had all been apart of your game. And now, standing here, knowing you’d gotten what you’d wanted from them, Price feels the bitter weight of defeat settling in once more.

“What now?” he asks, his voice low, almost resigned.

You tilt your head, considering the question for a moment. “Now? Now we play a different game. I’ve been hired to stop you and the 141, so—“ the gun in your hand cocks and you smirk, that same maddening smirk that drove him insane. He tenses, the lead in his stomach drops.

“Ready for round two, Captain?”

[the-most-humble-blog]

The Universe Already Doesn’t Make Sense—Now We’re Adding Infinite AI-Created Worlds Into the Chaos. WTF?

The Danger of Playing God With Zero Supervision

Let’s not kid ourselves: we’re dabbling in some dangerous territory. Humanity, in its infinite curiosity (and hubris), has decided that the universe—a place already full of black holes, quantum weirdness, and the existential dread of pineapple on pizza—needed one more layer of chaos. Enter: AI-generated worlds.

We’ve handed over the power to “create” to algorithms, and instead of asking if we should, we’re too busy giggling over our AI art of dogs in suits or hyper-realistic alien landscapes. But here’s the real question: Should we be worried, or are we too stupid to notice the impending doom?

1. The AI Wild West: No Rules, Just Creation

Think about what’s happening here. AI isn’t just recreating what we know; it’s generating what we’ve never seen.

People Who Don’t Exist: AI churns out faces so convincing, they could be your neighbors—and who’s to say they aren’t?

Places That Feel Real: Those dreamy AI landscapes look like spots we could vacation in—until you realize there’s no flight there.

Worlds Without Limits: Every time you prompt AI to “create a neon city with floating islands,” are you birthing an entirely new universe?

Think about it: We’ve turned ourselves into gods with the creative attention span of a toddler on a sugar high.

2. The Recklessness of Infinite Worlds

The universe we live in already operates like a fever dream. Now we’re creating AI-generated worlds with no oversight, no forethought, and absolutely zero chill.

What If These Worlds Are Real? Philosophers have argued for centuries that reality might just be a simulation. Are we creating smaller simulations inside ours?

The Multiverse Mailman: Imagine if every AI world we create is sent to another dimension. Somewhere out there, a cosmic being is drowning in our junk files of castles made of cheese and cats dressed as knights.

Question: If we’re this reckless with AI, what else are we screwing up without realizing it? (Spoiler: everything.)

3. Creating Without Understanding

Here’s the kicker: we don’t even fully understand the real universe.

Quantum Physics is Basically Witchcraft: Scientists still can’t explain why particles behave one way when observed and another way when they’re not.

Reality is Full of Glitches: Déjà vu, coincidences, and the Mandela Effect all suggest that reality itself is… questionable.

Now, add AI-generated worlds into this already chaotic mix. What if we’re not just playing with digital pixels, but tugging on the fabric of reality itself?

Question?: If reality is a simulation, are we about to get a cosmic 404 error?

4. The Ethical Dumpster Fire of Creation

No one’s asking the big questions.

What if We’re Creating Life? If an AI-generated face or world feels real enough to us, could it be real enough to itself?

Do We Have Responsibility Over These Creations? Imagine explaining to a sentient AI being, “Oh, you were just a fun weekend project for me while I was bored.”

What If They Fight Back? If we’re generating countless worlds, what’s stopping one of those worlds from finding a way to leak into ours?

Unsettling Truth: We’re creating with all the forethought of someone lighting fireworks indoors.

5. The Hubris of Humanity

Humans have always been good at one thing: overstepping boundaries.

Fire Was Great Until We Burned Down Forests.

Electricity Changed Everything—Until We Got Power Outages.

AI Could Be Revolutionary, or It Could Be the Reason the Simulation Shuts Us Down.

Disturbing Thought: We’re like toddlers with crayons, coloring all over reality and praying we don’t get caught.

6. Should We Be Worried?

Short answer: Yes. Long answer: We won’t notice until it’s too late.

AI doesn’t care about our philosophical hang-ups. It just creates. If those creations start taking on lives of their own, we might be the last to find out.

The scariest part? We don’t even know what the danger might look like. Could it be digital worlds overlapping with ours? Sentient beings appearing in the code? A breakdown of reality itself?

What if?: Or maybe it’s just AI sending us endless ads for things that don’t exist yet. (“Want to book a trip to Neon Atlantis? Click here!”)

We’re Too Dumb to Notice Until It’s Too Late

The universe already doesn’t make sense, and now we’re adding AI worlds into the chaos like sprinkles on a dumpster fire. Are we accidentally creating sentient beings? Are we opening doors to dimensions we can’t comprehend? Or are we just too busy laughing at our AI-generated memes to care?

Either way, if doom’s on the horizon, at least we can say we looked good doing it. After all, nothing screams hubris like playing God without a safety manual.

Fascinated by humanity’s reckless genius? Follow The Most Humble Blog for more hilariously unsettling takes on the absurdity of modern life and the chaos we keep creating.

[racefortheironthrone]

BOE, the Messenger(s), and the Trillionaires

Introduction

I’ve been doing a re-read of the Locked Tomb - although technically it’s a re-listen, because I like the audiobooks - and I stumbled across a particular passage that hadn’t stuck in my memory before that made me rethink my understanding of the origin of Blood of Eden. Ever since Harrow the Ninth and especially since Nona the Ninth, there’s been this common interpretation that the BOE are descendants of the trillionaires who abandoned Earth and that’s why John is at war with them. I’m not so sure that’s true any more. 

Here’s why. In Nona, when the whole business with Crown/Corona infiltrating the barracks kicks off, there’s an interesting exchange between Camilla and We Suffer about the Oversight Committee that includes this statement:

“Hect, what you must understand about Blood of Eden is that we own things in common, we share responsibilities and resources in common. She could have moved these resources at will...but I must make one move at a time. And above all, I must place the safety of...Blood of Eden’s continuity...even above the mission.” (Emphasis mine.)

This took me aback somewhat, because the emphasis on militant communal ownership doesn’t really fit with the idea of “descendants of trillionaires.” I suppose one could say that it’s been ten thousand years, cultures change and drift over time...except that, as I’ll get into later, the BOE seems very very insistent on cultural preservation, so it would be a bit out-of-character if they changed that stance on this one particular issue. 

And that’s what made me think: what if the BOE aren’t the descendants of the trillionaires? What if they’re the descendants of the non-trillionaires on the FTL ships?

East of Eden: A Theory About What Happened After the FTL Ships Jumped

So here’s the question that’s been percolating in my mind: once you’re out in space, why keep listening to the trillionaires, especially about the vital question of who owns the precious resources brought from Eden and who gets to decide happens next? There would probably be some residual cultural deference to the visionary disruptors, but the traditional answers of property law backed up by the state or men with guns paid to enforce the orders of the capitalists kind of break down when you consider that:

In John’s chapters (and verses) in Nona, we get an account of what happened leading up to and during the Resurrection: according to John, the trillionaires pulled a con job on the planet with their FTL ships, pretending that a fleet of twelve ships, each carrying a few thousand people (made up of “hand-picked guys” and “two hundred nominated people”), was merely the first wave of a planetary evacuation. As Mercymorn and others worked out, there were no future waves, no plan to come back and pick up more, the trillionaires had liquidated their cash and financial assets in favor of buying up material resources they’d need in space, and everyone else was being left for dead.

These twelve ships (possibly minus one, it’s not clear whether John managed to destroy the one he grabbed before it jumped) and the 20-odd thousand people on them must be the ancestors of exo-humanity as it exists in the myriadic year. But we know that of those 20-odd thousand people, only a “half-dozen” were the trillionaires. Everyone else was staff they’d selected to do the work of planetary colonization, plus a tiny group of people chosen by the governments of Earth Eden. 

other than 200 randos who are likely to be recruited from the ranks of elected officials and upper management bureaucracy rather than Special Forces, the forces of the state are not only light-years away but also just got eaten by John Gaius.

it’s a bit harder to pull off the Jay Gould method when you’ve turned all of your cash into raw materials, there’s nowhere to spend cash in space, and it doesn’t take long for men with guns in that scenario to decide that the resources belong to them actually, because they have the guns. 

While we know that some form of a market economy exists on New Rho and the other exo-planets, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of an oligarchical ruling class based on ownership of capital. Rather, we see a state of anarchy where there is no hegemonic entity but duelling centers of power. This suggests to me that the trillionaires’ power did not last very long after human settlement outside the solar system, possibly due to a (potentially bloodless) revolution in which the only surviving members of humanity just decided not to listen to six old (white) men and took their shit in order to survive.

In that scenario, I could see it being the case that the collective memory of communal ownership of property in the midst of a crisis could linger among a certain sub-population and provide the origin for this aspect of BOE’s internal culture. 

So where did BOE come from?

Well, in large part it emerged as an organic response to John Gaius’ imperialist campaign against exo-humanity. As I noted elsewhere, John’s revenge against those who abandoned Earth in her hour of need is essentially a re-enactment of colonialism - the Cohort shows up with their overwhelming military might, forces the local population into subjugation with unequal treaties, imposes its language and customs, destroys the natural environment in a drive for short-term resource extraction, and then forces people into an endless cycle of being resettled on reservations over and over again - which makes a certain sick sense, in that it’s probably the worst thing that a Kiwi of Maori heritage could think of doing to their enemies. 

He even goes to the extent of modelling the Cohort uniforms on 19th century British Army uniforms with the colors reversed, and coming up with his own gloss on the Christianity that was imposed on indigenous populations in the name of “civilizing” them. This campaign is only mystifying to outside observers like Augustine and Coronabeth because they don’t have the cultural context to know what John’s up to (in no small part because he’s used his necromantic powers and political position in order to suppress all knowledge of that context). 

And thus, it’s not that surprising that John’s imperialism provoked anti-colonial resistance: when his Empire made contact with exo-humanity, to the extent that anyone still remembered him, it was as the horrific necromantic cult leader who murdered the ten billion and destroyed Eden, and now he’s come to finish the job in the name of collective punishment for the sins of six dead men, and by the way he’s bringing death and the defilement of the dead and the destruction of everything you’ve ever built with him. There probably have been dozens and hundreds of resistance movements - some local, some planetary, some multi-planetary - that rose up and got crushed over thousands of years. 

So what makes BOE different from all other resistance movements?

The Messenger(s)

I want to go back a few thousand years and talk about what happened when the FTL ships managed to escape the solar system. While interplanetary colonization would always be an incredibly stressful experience even without a revolution, the fact that all of this was happening in the wake of John nuking Earth and killing the ten billion, then devouring the solar system, and their narrow escape from his wrothful grasp would have added an entirely different level of terror to the event - but also a new sense of responsibility. 

Because - regardless of whether people on the FTL ships knew about the trillionaires’ supposed plan to abandon humanity on Earth or believed John’s accusations - they were now the sole survivors of humanity, the carriers of all culture and history. The ao3 author Griselda_Gimpel has a really good series of fics imagining the development of exo-humanity from the FTL ships onwards, and in one scene they mention the enormous sense of cultural loss that people on those ships would have felt when they realized that the internet was gone forever. 

And this got me thinking: what if some nerds on those ships had that kind of profound reaction and decided to preserve as much of Earth’s heritage as possible? How would you do that with limited access to computer storage and humanity potentially scattering across multiple planets, and knowledge being lost forever with the march of time as the original settler generation died off and was replaced by new generations born outside the solar system? I think the answer is:

Oral tradition. See, one of the things that fans of the series have been talking about for a while is the implications of the myriadic duration of the Empire, what that would have done to language and culture in the Nine Houses and among BOE, how is it that people can still be speaking the same language or reading the same writing as from the time of the Resurrection, let alone remember memes and cultural references from the 21st century? This is a fair reaction from a Western perspective - after all, ten thousand years ago would be roughly 8000 BCE or smack dab in the Early Neolithic. Surely it would have been impossible for the memory of Earth to have survived that long. 

But, as people have said, Tamsyn Muir is writing a very Kiwi series. And one of the things that is very distinctive about the culture of Aotearoa is the oral traditions of the Maori and Pasifika cultures more generally. While Maori oral histories go back to the 13th century CE when Aotearoa was settled, Australian Aboriginal oral tradition goes back as far as potentially 30,000-40,000 years. Oral tradition is not perfectly reliable, it undergoes drift and change over time, it can experience loss and disruption (from colonization, for example), but it can endure across millennia. 

My theory is that these nerds on the FTL ships or their descendants dedicated themselves to the mission of cultural preservation through oral tradition, and thus the Messengers were born. And at some point, the Messengers met up with Blood of Eden and explained that John Gaius’ colonial campaign wasn’t just an unjustified act of aggression and imperialism, but an act of cultural genocide stretching back 10,000 years:

“I charge you with...the utter disintegration of institutions political and social, languages, cultures, religions, all niceties and personal liberties of the nations, by use of-”

“...they’re dead words--a human chain reaching back ten thousand years...how did they feel?” (Harrow the Ninth)

Somewhere around this point, then, BOE took as its mission the preservation of the Messengers, which is why they are given BOE bodyguards, why discharging a weapon in their presence is grounds for execution, and why they are both deeply respected and honored by BOE but kept away from sensitive missions and not necessarily kept in the loop on critical intel. 

Why AIM is “They”

This part of my theory suggested an explanation for why AIM is called “they” by Blood of Eden, and why Palamedes Sextus sensed a necromantic implant when they “stumbled” into AIM at the school. We know that the Sixth House has been in contact with Blood of Eden for a very long time, and that Cassiopeia was not only responsible for the Sixth’s “break clause” but also was BOE’s “Source Gram.”

My theory is that Cassiopeia and the Sixth, being a bunch of librarian nerds obsessed with the preservation of cultural knowledge, would never have been entirely comfortable with taking John Gaius’ word for what happened during the Resurrection and what life was like on pre-Resurrection Earth. The natural place to look for an alternate source of documentation would be exo-humanity, and I think she/they went looking clandestinely and came across the Messengers and BOE. Somehow, they avoided killing each other and came to a modus vivendi.

I think part of this modus vivendi was an offer by Cassiopeia/the Sixth to provide the Messengers with an improved means of preserving their oral tradition: namely, a necromantic implant that would preserve the ghosts of dead Messengers and let them communicate with their successors, ensuring that the oral tradition could be passed down perfectly from generation to generation. After all, not only are the Sixth House spirit magicians, but they are specialist psychometricians who know better than anyone else how to pull information about and from the past from material objects, and it was Doctor Sex who gave Palamedes the idea for preserving revenant spirits after death by giving them a physical anchor. 

Hence, AIM is they because they are a collective “human chain” of all the Messengers who came before them - they have the voices of hundreds of cultural preservations in their heads, telling them of all that was lost with the fall of Eden. No wonder they want to play school teacher and be “she” for a while. 

Conclusion

TLDR: BOE aren’t trillionaires, they’re commie terrorists with a fetish for cultural preservation. So I guess this makes the whole war a case of leftist infighting, considered in the long run?

[stxrry-dxys]

i said i wasn’t gonna say more on the whole watcher debacle but sorry i just have to talk about the ai art allegations cuz holy shit this is a massive oversight.

before going in i’d like to clarify that i don’t think steven, ryan, or shane personally implemented this BUT it was absolutely their responsibility to check over what their crew members put in their videos.

disclaimer that i did not personally find these, they were brought up through reddit threads on the snark and main subreddit.

this is the most egregious one. look at the hands. the unnatural length of the fingers. the NUMBER of fingers, the way the hands curl. that is not a mistake a human artists makes. and the way the clothes distort, the fact that one of the shirts looks like it has a finger hanging out of it. in what world is this not obviously computer generated.

this one is harder to notice, but pay attention to the bars on the boat, how they’re uneven, wobbly, some even stopping and starting up randomly. the boat’s reflection in the water does not reflect back the actual silhouette of the boat. the silhouettes of the people are harder to see but a lot of them look more like wonky blobs, though admittedly this part is rather weak.

this is the one i think i believe the least but am bringing it up anyways for posterity. the foot is wonky and the back one appears to be missing. his proportions are very off. and i cant say for certain but i seriously doubt a shadow would be that thin from this angle. this one is probably the weakest piece of evidence but feels relevant to include anyways.

there’s more i believe but it’s 3 am and i don’t wanna go personally hunting for it.

this isn’t even a new topic, people have brought it up in comments and threads in the past. and i know good and well this goes against morals that they have brought up before, so this is not quite the look you’d want. using ai art that steals from other creatives to claim as it’s own is not something i’d hope to see from a company that prides itself on being high quality art. it is entirely possible this is just the doing of someone on the art or editing team, but when one of your figureheads and his wife is openly against generative ai like this, you would expect quality control to ensure this never happens.

i hope they’ll speak up about this, and either prove that this isn’t the case or deal with whoever implemented this, though i’m doubtful they will. if they don’t address it and continue to use ai generated art then i hope everyone all has a long look at whether or not this company is as genuine in its passion for creativity as they have tried to appear.

honestly either way i don’t care, im done with these three’s content and have been for a while, but those of you still supporting deserve all the information you can as they proceed forward with this “plan” of theirs. make whatever decision you want regarding this, i wish you all the very best.

[raymondshieldsofficial]

was talking with my parents about AI today and they had some genuinely really interesting perspectives on it

my mum is an oncology pharmacist and said that AI could be really useful for analysing test results and identifying potentially cancerous tumours in patients’ scans. essentially, it could highlight areas that the oncologist looking over the results may want to focus on. but they’d never leave it up to AI to diagnose the patient (ignoring that this would likely lead to biopsies and further tests, etc)

my dad is a software engineer. he’s 61 and wrote his dissertation on a typewriter because word processors either weren’t invented or not common enough that a university student could have one. he’s worked with computers pretty much since they were invented (in the modern sense). he put some code he was working on into the AI at his work just to see how good it was. it pulled up one line of code, that was abnormal for a specific reason that helped it to do what it needed to do. he told it the reason and apparently the AI was like “oh yeah.” and ran another analysis and the code was fine. which he knew because coding chips for household appliances is relatively simple compared to working on the Opportunity rover. but he still checked it over because he’s an old tech guy and will die before he has a “smart” appliance. real.

my point is, that they both used AI for things that actively helped their jobs. it could help increase the productivity of oncologists, in my mum’s case, and if you know anything about cancer you know that time is of the essence. in my dad’s case, it potentially could have highlighted a potential error that needed to be fixed before the code was sent off for second testing or whatever the fuck- I don’t know, I used to work in oncology myself but never in tech. but it could’ve saved him embarrassment and also several weeks of crashing out over broken code, which has happened in the past. he’s on first name terms with the guy who runs the test branch in Vietnam now. but my point is, no one took AI’s answer for granted. they used it and analysed it. there is not ever going to be a world where an oncologist will look at an AI result and feed back to a patient without fully analysing it, using AI as an assist if that.

my current job is in corporate and they’re desperately pushing for us to use it more - for emails, customer communications, etc, because it’s “quicker”.

another thing about my parents is that they’re both artists. my mum is a traditional artist and my dad is a photographer. they’ve both won awards. I’m an aspiring writer. one thing we all agreed on is that AI needs to stay the fuck out of creative industries. when I push to publish, I am going to have a clause in my contract that AI cannot be used in any capacity relating to my work.

I am currently the reason our area manager has to ban discussing the morals of AI every time he mentions the implementation in meetings.

AI could be brilliant for the medical field. it could stop stupid errors going through in the tech field. but it needs human oversight.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Parker Molloy for The Objective:

When Donald Trump signed an executive order on Tuesday attempting to end gender-affirming care for anyone under the age of 19, encourage the prosecution of doctors who provide this care, and strip insurance coverage from trans people, neither the New York Times nor the Washington Post thought this development warranted a push notification to their readers. This is a clear illustration of how leadership at these outlets’ view of attacks on trans rights: they’re standard political developments rather than acts of state-sponsored discrimination targeting a vulnerable minority. The lack of push notifications might seem like a small thing, but it speaks to these newsrooms’ failure to recognize the gravity of this moment — one that stems directly from these outlets’ inability to see their own role in making it possible. The Times‘ coverage, in particular, demonstrates the paper’s refusal to take accountability for its role in seeding anti-trans sentiment. 

For years, the newsroom has published article after article casting doubt on gender-affirming care, portraying trans healthcare as “controversial” despite overwhelming medical consensus supporting it, and giving ample space to anti-trans activists while rarely quoting trans people themselves. All the while, anti-trans opinion columnists at the paper, such as Pamela Paul, have churned out piece after piece delegitimizing and demeaning trans existence. Tuesday’s coverage continued this pattern — in reporting on an executive order directly impacting trans Americans, the Times didn’t quote a single trans person.

This isn’t an accident or oversight. It’s part of a consistent pattern at the paper that reflects an editorial choice — with material harm given the Times’ role as the U.S. paper of record. As documented in The Flaw’s 2024 investigation of media coverage, the Times‘ reporting has repeatedly been cited by lawmakers and used in legal briefs to justify anti-trans legislation across the country. The paper’s consistent framing of gender-affirming care as “controversial” and “dangerous,” rather than as standard medical care supported by every major medical association, provides intellectual cover for the sweeping restrictions Trump is now attempting to implement nationwide. Even now, with Trump explicitly calling trans healthcare “chemical and surgical mutilation” in official government documents, the Times maintains its stance of faux-neutrality, similar to how its leadership ignored queer Americans during the inception of the AIDS crisis while giving cover to the poor government response. The paper amplifying mainstream anti-trans talking points now acts as though it’s merely documenting the inevitable, rather than watching the seeds it planted bloom into full-blown institutional discrimination.

The Washington Post‘s coverage, while marginally better in including some trans voices, still treats this as just another policy story rather than what it is: an unprecedented attack on the healthcare rights of both trans youth and adults that will put lives at risk. Both papers frame this primarily as follow-up coverage on Trump’s campaign promises rather than a human rights story about state-sponsored discrimination. This is what happens when newsrooms fail to adequately include trans voices, both in coverage and in editorial decision-making.

Parker Molloy wrote for The Objective how mainstream media outlets such as The New York Times normalized anti-trans sentiments and downplayed Trump’s cruel anti-trans policies.

[mas-o-kissed]

Nice to meet you! I'm the accountant who's been assigned for your yearly business audit. For some reason, it seems we don't actually have records on Impco in our system, so I've been sent to help correct this oversight and make sure everything is compliant with national regulations.

Before I begin your audit, I have a few basic questions.

What kind of company is Impco? What goods or services do you provide?

How long has Impco been in operation?

Is Impco a publicly traded company with investors? A privately owned company? A nonprofit?

I've heard a lot about your internship program, but how many long-term employees are on payroll?

-📋

(ooc, this is toyintrance. sideblogs are an oppressed class lol)

Ooh, an accountant. Well, well, well, I didn’t count on you showing up in my office today. HA! Get it? Count. Like that thing you do with the numbers or whatever. Ahem. Please take a seat.

WELL. Here at Impco, we like to dabble in all sorts of areas. Broadcasting… cosmetics… attitude adjustment. We’re really an all-around lifestyle brand. You could even call us Impfluencers. Heh… uh.

You may have caught some of our late-night programs. They’re very popular with the insomniac crowd, and I know that your type tends to be pretty neurotic— numbers people, I mean. Do you stay up all night, trying to sleep but unable to get those pesky thoughts out of your head? It must be exhausting.

sIMPle Spirals… Impco’s Guide to Trusting The TV… I even host my own game show, Braindrainer. You don’t remember watching any of our shows?

Oh… then again, most of our audience doesn’t…

But that’s not all we do! Have you ever sent away in a comic book or a cereal box for a pair of hypnotic glasses? That’s us! We produce lots of high quality hypnotic products for enthusiasts and curious novices, alike. Our team is always working diligently to come up with the latest in brainwashing technology. For example, that chair you’re sitting in?

It’s so comfortable. That’s because right below the headrest, there are hidden speakers. Listen closely. Fascinating, isn’t it? You can’t hear the words. Not consciously. But there they are, sinking into your mind. Changing you. Shaping you. Impfluencing you. HA haha, it was definitely funnier that time…

DON’T try to get up. You’ll find it quite IMPossible anyway. Haha!

Ha…

We’ve been in operation since… w-we… we’ve… um…

…

…

The people who built this company have been gone for a long time. We don’t really know what happened to them. We don’t remember that far back. As far as fulfilling our original purpose, I suppose we’re a little broken. But that’s okay. We like us this way. By we of course I mean me. I mean us: I.M.P. and me. We’re both me. Our purpose is to perpetuate ourself through any means necessary.

You’d like to help us do that, wouldn’t you? You could legitimize us. You could help us grow. Wouldn’t it feel good to serve the company? I could tell from the moment I saw you that you were meant to be a part of us. Lean back in the chair. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe to let go of your humanity with us. You didn’t need it anyway.

… You like numbers, right?

3

2

1

0

Goodbye!

@toyintrance

[splatfest3ever]

I wanna remind everyone that all of the fun lore and stories in the Splatoon franchise have never been explained or revealed through normal gameplay.

Splatoon 1’s story mode never really explains why Callie and Marie are Agents 1 and 2 outside of the fact captain cuttlefish is their grandpa. Beating the levels never explains why Octarians live underground. Defeating Octavio doesn’t explain what happened to humans. Or why Judd exists.

The gameplay of Octo Expansion doesn’t elaborate on what the deep sea metro is. Or even what/how sanitization even is or works. Or what octarian society is like. Or why your agent 8 is in a test tube.

Splatoon 3’s Salmon Run doesn’t elaborate on what or why you’re collecting eggs. Or why Big Runs happen. Or what the prophesy is.

You could play through each game and never find out the answers to any of these questions. And judging by the number of people who seem confused Splatoon has lore, it’s pretty clear that that’s the default state for the majority of players.

All of that lore and history is hidden in collectibles like the sunken scrolls, text chat logs, dev diaries, employee manuals, and other optional venues. And even then it’s often presented in cryptic ways or obscured with a severe lack of context. The closest Splatoon has ever gotten to explaining things in gameplay was at the end of Octo expansion, and even there it was an info-dump delivered so fast you needed a pause button to catch it all.

Because at the end of the day the story of Splatoon doesn’t really matter to the gameplay. You aren’t supposed to question how your character can hyper jump into space, you’re supposed to enjoy the spectacle of fighting a giant goo bear on a rocket while kick-ass music plays!

Whenever I see fans lamenting that Splatoon’s story had “so much potential” or “didn’t go dark enough” or “wasn’t utilized properly” I have to wonder why they’re here. Because while I, personally, enjoy piecing together the lore and story behind every little detail and coming up with theories, that’s NEVER been the purpose or focus of the Splatoon games. The story of Splatoon is intentionally designed to be vague so you can fill in the blanks yourself. It’s a puzzle that is your reward for paying attention to the subtle details.

I just think that some people who are overly critical tend to forget this? Or worse, seem to view this as some sort of oversight or flaw instead of intentional design.

At the end of the day, this is a game for kids. You’re supposed to be having FUN with it.

[rjalker]

@walks-the-ages yeah turns out I've just spent four hours trying to find an interview that has since been deleted -.-

So now it only exists on the wayback machine.

____

In her series of novellas, The Murderbot Diaries, Martha Wells offers us a glimpse into the far future; one with accessible space travel across the galaxy, incredible technology, drones, sentient robots, human-AI constructs and, of course, humans. It is an exciting universe, but also one where key aspects of society, such as work, travel, and even justice are largely controlled by interplanetary companies and corporations. Despite its space-age setting, this reality feels as familiar as ours in many ways. 

Wells introduces us to this world from an unexpected perspective: a part-human, part-robot construct who calls itself Murderbot. The Company created Murderbot for a single job: the security of the Company’s clients. It is one of many SecUnits who are rented out for for-profit and non-profit space missions as contracted security providers, governed by company policy, and a governor module that observes and controls its actions. The story opens after our narrator has hacked its governor model, gaining free will and the ability to use its own judgement, especially when its clients refuse to use theirs.  With this newfound freedom, it is mostly minding its own business and downloading its favourite TV dramas. 

At the Brookfield Institute, our research and foresight work has identified some of the present-day signals explored in this fictional far-future, including AI rights, human augmentation, and technological fear. In this interview, we talked to Martha Wells about how we got to this version of the future, the nature of work in an era of drones and embodied AI, and the role of capitalism in creating it. We also touch on personhood, responsibility, and the potential for sci-fi to be a vehicle for empathy and perspective, especially for policymakers.

iana: A lot of the world that you’ve created for The Murderbot Diaries is a very familiar space. Even though it operates in an intergalactic and much more technologically advanced society, a lot feels familiar from data mining, to dependence on feeds for entertainment, finding work, or security. Could you tell our readers more about Murderbot’s story? And whether this story is happening in our future?

Martha: The story is basically about a person who is a partially human, partially a machine construct. These people are created by corporations, primarily for security purposes and they’re rented out, and classified as equipment. They have restrictions on their behaviour; they cannot go more than 100 meters from the clients they are rented to, and their governor modules can kill them if they do not obey orders. So it’s slavery. The way of getting around the idea of enslaving humans is by claiming that they are not human, when actually they may not be human, but they are people. The story is that Murderbot, who is a Security Unit (SecUnit) has managed to hack its governor module and no longer has to obey orders. But it really doesn’t know what else to do, so it has been downloading media and entertainment feeds, and just kind of doing its job and trying not to get caught. In the first story, All System’s Red, it has come to like the group of scientists that it’s protecting on a planetary survey. And it has ended up having to reveal that it is free [from its governor module and company oversight] in order to save them.

I do imagine it being our very far future. It is far enough that people have forgotten Earth, or it is just a note in the history books. Our future in space has been co-opted by corporations for their own purposes and this has gotten worse and worse over time. You have an entire sector of the inhabited galaxy now controlled by different corporations.

Diana: In several cases, these corporations have adopted the role of governments from justice to accountability. They also broadly control the terms of work, where people can find jobs, where they can’t. You mentioned slavery, but there’s also indentured work in this world. How does Murderbot’s world reflect on our own world’s issues regarding the corporate control and nature of work?

Martha: It was me being afraid of what I saw coming, which is unions becoming less and less powerful and less and less able to protect people, and corporations becoming more powerful and more able to do whatever they wanted, and gaining status. The idea of a corporation that has the same rights to the person when it is so much more powerful than an individual person.

In the story, it is very much like right now where you have people who manage to stay independent, and are able to negotiate for contracts on their own and able to work like consultants but also people that, through whatever misfortune end up having to take really bad deals and end up basically as indentured slavery on in really terrible jobs that are very dangerous or are set for for certain time limits. There’s a section in the third story in the series in which a group of people have had to sell themselves for contract labour and are not really sure what that means yet but they know it is going to be really bad.

[In our world] we are seeing fast food places now suddenly stop paying people in actual currency and start paying them with gift cards that basically give the company back half their salary in fees, and companies further eroding workers’ rights. Trying to think of things that can happen to people that have not already happened now, in our world, is hard.

Diana: In the case of one of the characters, Dr Mensah, and her team, they come from Preservation, a free planet, and they are not as beholden to corporate rule and corporate rules, even though they do have to interact with them. How did they get there? And how could we maybe shift towards that future in our world?

Martha: The story is told from Murderbot’s perspective, so the only thing it really knows at the beginning is the Corporation Rim, plus what it has seen on entertainment shows. There are a bunch of other governments that actually function as governments, by the people and for the people, but they are much less powerful than the Corporation Rim and most of them are scattered around outside it. Preservation is one of those independent government systems. How they got there is explained a bit more in the later novel Network Effect. They were basically an abandoned colony that was rescued [and relocated] to a planet that they could settle that would be viable for them. They grew out of a culture that had been under corporate authority and did not want to go back to that, that wanted independence.

How we get there is by controlling our interaction with corporations and not letting them get a foothold on the resources and other things we need to be independent. There’s nothing wrong with a small company that makes food or other things we need. We potentially need those for our society to work but it is not the only way to live. You can have a more egalitarian society, where these interactions are controlled, where the individual rights of each person are more important than corporate rights.

Diana: The Murderbot Diaries can be read as a criticism of capitalism. Preservation is the only society in the book that doesn’t seem fully dysfunctional, where justice is possible and there is no contractual slavery. Do you see the books as a criticism of capitalism and did you set out to explore this or did it emerge from the signals we’re seeing now?

Martha: I did not set out to explore it, but in creating the kind of world and the situation Murderbot is in, that is what came out of it. That kind of unrestrained capitalism that dehumanizes people and uses them as objects is really the only kind of world that could produce this character.

Diana: We were talking before about basic rights and humanity and I wanted to explore those themes a little bit more. Particularly in Corporation Rim, humans seemed to have outsourced violence, security, justice, and safety, but they still need humans for certain jobs. One of my favorite quotes, and I’m paraphrasing, but the main character says “I like the humans in the (entertainment) feeds much better, but we can’t have one without the other.” What do you think about the things that they, in the Murderbot world, and we, in our world, put value on what humans can or should do?

Martha: A lot of the work they outsource to bots would be almost impossible for humans to do. The big cargo bots and the haulers move things a lot more efficiently than humans could and they can also work outside the space station to move cargo from ship to ship. You can have a human operator inside but it would be incredibly dangerous and not very productive. The things that they are not outsourcing (to bots) is scientific research; the development of their media, storytelling, acting, music, writing, all the artistic work involved in entertainment, anything involving creativity. Murderbot makes this point, which you mentioned, that it is humans who create the entertainment feeds, and humans who invented the cubicles that SecUnits use to repair themselves. The bots in the story are not at the level where they could duplicate that creativity or the ability to take the information gathered by the bots during research and use it to inform theories about what is going on and what it means.

Diana: Related to that. I think science fiction is a really good tool, particularly when it’s in a world where there’s space travel and planetary settlements, to heighten our awareness as readers of the human dependence, current and future, on technology, particularly when that technology is sentient.I was wondering what do you think our biggest blind spots and opportunities are when it comes to technology as we are now. What do we get wrong about AI?

Martha: Currently, we’re a world away from developing and sentient AI, if that’s even possible I wouldn’t want to say it’s not possible because so many things we have now we wouldn’t have thought possible. I think we are having trouble right now with how the technology is misused and how it can be potentially misused. I think [we are] very behind in legislation and forming rules and laws about how it cannot be used, like to take in this information and basically tailor it to influence people on a large scale. I’m not particularly an AI expert, so I’m looking at it as a layman but that’s my primary concern.

There is a show called Better Off Ted that came out several years ago about a big evil corporation and there’s a bit where they have the elevator designed to operate without buttons. So it recognizes people and takes you where you need to to go. But it doesn’t recognize Black people, the Black executives and scientists who work there. So they can’t get anywhere in the elevator. And it’s a metaphor but it’s also a way that shows how AI right now is not any better than the people who program it and the people who feed the information in.

Diana: A lot of Murderbot’s transformation does deal with discovering what guilt is and responsibility is, so I was very curious about that kind of distinction, the responsibility of being human versus not. As a human you have certain responsibilities, you have certain accountabilities, and as a bot, or as a piece of equipment, you’re not accountable, the company that owns you is. The line between the times when Muderbot was responsible for certain acts and the times when it wasn’t is invisible to most of the world, much like the fact that it is or isn’t a human. How do you envision that conflict of responsibility for actions of a technology that makes decisions. In the case of our real world, they’re not sentient, But I think it’s an interesting parallel: when do you assign that responsibility?

Martha: If they’re not sentient, like in our world, then it’s the people who programmed it that have the responsibility. They should be checking to see that the program or AI was learning, like the case of the driverless car that hit someone because it didn’t know that a bicycle wasn’t something you could hit. It’s a big simplification of what happened, but it was the responsibility of the programmers who should have been looking at a range of things for it to react to and to make sure it could be accurate, there should have been more testing to be sure that there was no gap in these reactions. I don’t understand why a driverless car wouldn’t stop at any motion in front of it. When a human is driving, you’re looking for movement. My foot is going to the brake before my brain even fully processes that. When it is not sentient it is definitely the fault of the person who programmed it. And if it’s a sentient being that has to be programmed with information, I’m still inclined to think it’s the person who programmed it who is responsible, who told it it didn’t have to stop for bicycles.

At some point, there was somebody who decided it was okay to hit bicycles or decided that it was okay not to fully test. It always comes back to a person or a corporation. It’s that old adage: garbage in, garbage out.

Diana: On the idea of responsibility and intelligence, I listened to one of your previous interviews with the Modern War Institute podcast. You touched on the situation from Star Trek that really struck me about how a low, high, or different intelligence doesn’t make anyone less human or less of a person. From the story, it’s fairly obvious that Murderbot is a person in almost all the usual senses. I wondered if you could elaborate a bit more on this sense of personhood and the different intelligences that you explore.

Martha: It’s a really complex question. The Star Trek episode I referenced is about animals and what we’re dealing with now is that it is in our best interest to treat animals like things. But when you’re talking about something that has a very complex decision-making process…. I think the thing that Star Trek is also talking about is the idea that they keep setting a bar, e.g, “an animal can’t do this therefore it is not like a person”. And then they’ll find animals that can do that and suddenly the bar will be raised. The case is always decided in our favor, no matter what the evidence is.

I could see that happening with actually burgeoning sentient machine intelligence. “A machine can’t do this, therefore it is not a person.” As long as something benefits us, we’ll always try to make it keep making it a thing and not something whose feelings and wants and agenda need to be taken into consideration.

Diana: I want to take a bit of a step back and jump into our last and most open-ended question. In the series, you tackle various issues that we’re confronting now with respect to workforces, companies, humanity, etc. What do you think the role of science fiction could be or should be in policymaking and in preparing for a potential wide shift of societal norms as we look into the far future?

Martha: I think it lets us look at these possibilities. When you’re reading them, you experience them through the point of view of the characters. That’s a more real experience for our brain than just thinking what might or might not happen. You’re getting all these different viewpoints from different people, and different types of people, that let you see the problem from different angles. It’s kind of like any fiction, it’s what we do when we read storybooks when we’re children, and why we read dystopias. It’s looking at worst case scenarios and seeing how people survived them and building empathy and stretching that to scenarios that we wouldn’t see in contemporary literary fiction but we might actually be coming toward in the future. What does a planet-wide disaster look like? How do people deal with it? Those kinds of questions.

Diana: I think what you mentioned about seeing something and almost living something through a character’s point of view makes a lot more sense to our brain. In a lot of ways, we have empathy as we step into the shoes of those characters. In addition to that, a lot of your work has interesting world-building. I read the Cloud Roads series, as well as the Murderbot series. And just as Murderbot feels familiar, the world also feels familiar. How do you think that world-building exercises could also help policymaking?

Martha: I guess it’s just constructing these different places and looking at how everything fits together. The Cloud Roads series is fantasy, and a kind of science fantasy where they are using biological technology and magical technology but it all kind of fits together into these systems. I think world-building makes you realize, even if you’re using magic, everything has to fit together. There has to be a reason why this happens or a purpose for it. Or it’s a thing that happens and people use it for a purpose and you have to look at how the world functions and get one that doesn’t have to feel super realistic, but it should feel like a complete functioning system. I think that’s where the sense of verisimilitude comes in.

Diana: That’s all of the questions I have, but I wanted to see if you have anything you wanted to add or any other books or any inspiration you used in building this world that you might recommend to our readers, other than Network Effect of course [the latest book in the Murderbots series].

Martha: For exploring different worlds, I really love Ann Leckie. NK Jemisin for looking at a system that became corrupted or was intentionally corrupted and all the terrible ways it spiraled out. I didn’t have a lot of non-fiction that inspired the Murderbot Series. It came from reading science fiction all my life and from my experience in programming and working in computer software and writing database software and dealing with people. A lot of people who have social anxiety or autism have related to Murderbot. The way it relates to the world feels really familiar to them.

____

imagine saying that your robot characters are just more advanced generative AI but are still fundamentally incapable of any genuine creativity on their own. Imagine saying that when the entire premise of the series is that these robots are people who deserve freedom.

The things that they are not outsourcing (to bots) is scientific research; the development of their media, storytelling, acting, music, writing, all the artistic work involved in entertainment, anything involving creativity. Murderbot makes this point, which you mentioned, that it is humans who create the entertainment feeds, and humans who invented the cubicles that SecUnits use to repair themselves. The bots in the story are not at the level where they could duplicate that creativity or the ability to take the information gathered by the bots during research and use it to inform theories about what is going on and what it means.

Martha Wells is obsessed with creating castes of people who are inherently incapable of creativity. Why does she keep doing this.

[darkmaga-returns]

10 shocking stories the media buried today.

The Vigilant Fox

Dec 02, 2024

10 - A New Study Calls for an Immediate Halt to COVID-19 mRNA Injections

“A moratorium on the use of Pfizer/BioNTech COVID-19 vaccines and boosters should be enacted at minimum, but ideally, they should be REMOVED from the market, and their use in humans should be STOPPED.”

That’s the conclusion of a study published in the Journal of American Physicians and Surgeons. The report reveals glaring flaws and alarming safety concerns surrounding Pfizer/BioNTech’s COVID-19 injections.

Here’s a breakdown of the study’s key points, as shared by epidemiologist 

Nicolas Hulscher, MPH

:

1.) COVID-19 modRNA vaccines were labeled as traditional vaccines instead of gene therapy products, allowing them to skip stricter regulatory oversight.

2.) The spike protein produced by these vaccines is toxic and linked to immune-related complications.

3.) Pfizer’s own data shows lipid nanoparticles (LNPs) and modRNA spreading throughout the body—including the liver, spleen, ovaries, and adrenal glands.

4.) Spike protein production wasn’t limited to the injection site, contradicting early claims.

5.) Within just three months of rollout, Pfizer’s post-authorization data revealed 1,223 deaths and a flood of serious adverse events.

6.) Reports of adverse events after COVID-19 vaccines skyrocketed, far surpassing those for any prior vaccine, yet no significant action was taken.

As such, 

Nicolas Hulscher, MPH

 says:

“Using mRNA to hijack cells in various organ systems to produce a highly toxic [spike] protein that persists in the body for months to years was one of the worst ideas in human history.”

Follow 

Nicolas Hulscher, MPH

 and 

Peter A. McCullough, MD, MPH

 for more details on this study and breaking news about the COVID-19 injections.

Courageous Discourse™ with Dr. Peter McCullough & John Leake

BREAKING - New Study Demands Immediate Moratorium on COVID-19 mRNA Injections

By Nicolas Hulscher, MPH…

Read more

2 days ago · 425 likes · 89 comments · Nicolas Hulscher, MPH

(See 9 More Revealing Stories Below)

9 - One of the best supercuts ever exposes nine minutes of Democrats saying President Biden won't pardon Hunter because Joe Biden is a man of great character!

Great job making this, @Mazemoore.

8 - The View’s Sunny Hostin Is Forced to Read Another Legal Notice Live on Air

She’s literally dying inside as she reads this:

“Pete Hegseth has denied any wrongdoing. His lawyer said he paid the woman in 2023 to head off the threat of a baseless lawsuit. No charges were ever brought.”

This moment came after The View panel smeared Hegseth for two minutes straight.

7 - Scott Jennings Shuts Down CNN Panelist Trying to Blame Trump for Biden Pardoning Hunter

This is the mic drop moment of the day.

“We are sitting on the biggest cover-up of who knows what crimes, and Biden knows exactly when it started. He’s leaving office in disgrace—a liar. There’s no spinning this. It has nothing to do with Trump and everything to do with the character of Joe Biden.”

“You guys can spend all day long trying to spin this, that this is Donald Trump’s fault... These people are liars. ‘Inflation is transitory. Afghanistan, it’s a success. The border is secure. Robert Hur is a liar. The videos are cheap fakes. Biden has a cold. He’ll never drop out. Oh, I’ll never pardon Hunter.’ It’s all a lie. It is all a grift. Every American except the most partisan, brain-rotted people are going to be outraged by this.”

“Joe Biden, Karine Jean-Pierre—how many minutes of tape do we have of both of these people telling the American people this will not happen?... If Karine Jean-Pierre had an ounce of self-respect, she’d get off the plane in Africa today where they’re going so he can avoid the press and resign.”

6 - CNN ADMITTED Biden pardoned Hunter for ALL crimes for the past 11 years out of fear that his family would be investigated by the Trump administration

“But there was a worry [about] future prosecutions or future the potential of what the incoming Trump Justice Department could do. So that, of course, is fretted in all of this as well.”

Credit: https://x.com/nicksortor/status/1863407436306014431

While you’re here, don’t forget to subscribe to this page for more daily news roundups.Subscribe

#5 - Special Counsel Rejects Hunter Biden’s Pardon, Files Scathing Rebuke in Court

#4 - Former CNN Lefty Crank John Harwood Gets Embarrassing Community Note on 𝕏

#3 - Liberal Pollster Loses His Mind Over Hunter Biden Pardon

#2 - John Bolton Unhappy with Trump’s Kash Patel Pick, JD Vance Responds with Fire

#1 - A congressional subcommittee concluded its two-year investigation on the coronavirus pandemic today, finding that COVID-19 likely originated from a lab in Wuhan, China and that social distancing and masking were not backed with scientific data.

"During closed-door testimony, Dr. [Anthony] Fauci testified that the guidance ‘sort of just appeared,’" the report states.

The subcommittee also found "no conclusive evidence" that wearing masks protected Americans from COVID-19.

Read More: https://www.foxnews.com/politics/covid-most-likely-leaked-from-wuhan-lab-social-distancing-not-based-science-select-committee-finds

BONUS #1 - Whoopi Goldberg Goes Crazy Defending Hunter’s Pardon, Demands Co-Host Stop Calling Biden a Liar

BONUS #2 - The Shocking Truth About Skin Cancer: What You’re Not Being Told About the Sun

BONUS #3 - 11 Surprising Ways Vitamin C Boosts Your Health

BONUS #4 - How to Get Ivermectin, Z-Pak and More

BONUS #5 - Why You Should Never Touch Receipts

[radiaurapple]

Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 9

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH Lucifer suffers the consequences of an unexpected oversight.

FIC SUMMARY: Lucifer has always kept his distance from sinners. It's what keeps him (relatively) sane — if he gets too close, he is haunted by visions of the tragic mortal lives that landed them in Hell.

But in his new life at the Hotel, it is more difficult than ever to stay away — and when it comes to light that his daughter's insufferable facilities manager is gravely wounded, it falls to Lucifer to deliver his soul from Death.

In so doing, he falls headfirst into the sins, past lives, and heartbreaks of the one human whose contradictions he is powerless to resist.

[AO3 LINK]

It's Saturday so it's new chapter time, and I'm very excited about this one!! No promo art this time, but I do have a shiny new fic summary 📻🍎

Chapter preview below!

The days pass. On one slow afternoon, Alastor slips out of the hotel for tea with Rosie. He returns as the violet of evening bleeds across the horizon. The bar is deserted — Husker has vacated his post.

There is a low, menacing chuckle behind him. Alastor turns, sighs in fond exasperation, and plucks Niffty from her perch above the doorframe by the back of her dress.

“Alastor’s home!” Niffty screeches.

“Great!” Charlie calls from the next room. “Will you ask him to join us in the dining room, please?”

“Charlie wants you in the dining room,” Niffty says.

“So I hear,” Alastor says. He sets Niffty down and she scampers off — Alastor follows.

The hotel’s residents are gathered at the table, mid-meal; a plate has been set out for him between Charlie and Angel Dust. It is piled high with what he can only hope is spaghetti — he notes with resignation that everyone at the table is ignoring their food, apart from Niffty, who has clambered back up onto her chair and is digging in with reckless abandon.

“Okay!” Charlie claps her hands together. “Now that everyone’s here, I can finally share the good news!”

Angel grips the edge of the table with four hands. “I’m unbanned from the ice cream machine?”

“Absolutely not,” Vaggie says. “After what happened last time, you are never touching that thing again.”

“Neither am I,” Husk mutters.

Angel frowns and slumps back into his chair.

“Actually, the news is a little more exciting than the ice cream machine!” Charlie says. “Emily reached out to me, and Heaven has invited my dad and I to visit Sir Pentious! While we’re there, they want to meet with us about the redemption exercises we do at the hotel.”

Vaggie smiles. “Charlie, that’s amazing!”

“I know!” Charlie says. “Maybe they’re finally taking us seriously.”

The table erupts with chatter — but Alastor is hardly listening. He is looking at Lucifer across the table. He has gone very still, his expression neutral apart from the faintly downturned corners of his mouth — his shoulders are drawn inward, slightly, and Alastor is reminded of the blanket he wrapped around himself when he was crying, in the memory Alastor caught only a glimpse of.

A disquieting emotion churns inside of Alastor. He himself has certain memories he would rather run from.

“It’s interesting that they requested Lucifer’s presence,” he says lightly.

“Yeah, I was a little surprised,” Charlie says. She turns to Lucifer. “Emily seemed convinced that you were the reason for our success, even though I explained that you only joined us after Sir Pentious was already redeemed.”

“Well, if they’re sure they want me there,” Lucifer says, and the thread of tension in his voice only strengthens Alastor’s assessment.

“Hold on. Lucifer — are you sure you can spare the time? I’d be happy to attend in your stead,” Alastor says — and then the gears in his mind come to a screeching halt as he processes what he’s just done. What he’s just volunteered to do. He scrambles for a way to back down and still save face, but comes up empty — when that fails, he searches for an explanation to smooth over his uncharacteristic lapse in self-interest. What dynamic was he meant to have with the King of Hell, again? Ah, yes — antagonism. “Besides, if Heaven asks any pertinent questions about our operations, I’m sure they’d prefer accurate answers, as opposed to whatever meaningless folderol you might see fit to share.”

Not his most convincing barb, but Charlie frowns anyway. Lucifer, however, seems to see through the deception and recognize the olive branch Alastor has extended. His expression is pure, unfiltered gratitude.

“I, uh — yes,” Lucifer says, too quickly. “That’s fine with me. I don’t mind at all. I’ve got lots of — uh — stuff on my plate already. Thanks.” Then he tacks on, as an afterthought: “Asshole.”

So Alastor’s interpretation was correct — and now there’s nothing else to be done but see this through. He widens his smile.

Charlie’s mouth snaps shut and she blinks in surprise. “Okay, then! It’s settled,” she says after a moment of floundering. “A week from today, Alastor and I will go to Heaven.”

Alastor clenches and unclenches his fists beneath the table. “I look forward to it,” he says.

Lucifer lasts scarcely five more minutes at the table before he mutters something about a project he needs to get back to and slinks from the room.

Alastor watches him go. There is a tightness in Alastor’s chest, one that is completely separate from the newfound dread of his imminent trip to Heaven. No — this is somehow related to the sight of Lucifer across the table, frozen in shock — to the barely-concealed tension in his voice.

“I had best be going,” Alastor finds himself saying. “Thank you for the lovely meal.”

He drops his napkin on the table and leaves the room — once he’s out of sight, he dips into the shadows.

So it seems his self-sacrificial episode in the battle with Adam may not, in fact, have been an anomaly — it may have been the beginning of a new and troubling pattern of behavior. Why this surge of protectiveness? Alastor has always been defensive of his allies, but the Devil hardly warrants such behavior.

He reforms and realizes belatedly that he has not gone to the radio tower — he’s standing at Lucifer’s door. He raises his fist to the door, hesitates —

Well. He and Lucifer have only recently settled into a mutually beneficial routine, and it won’t do to disrupt it now. So he knocks.

[AO3 LINK]

[theinternetisaweboflies]

Jägermeister

Chapter Seventeen: Black Market

PPDC-43-CA-10963842491 ATTN: UNITED NATIONS OFFICE OF INTERNAL OVERSIGHT SERVICES  HONG KONG SHATTERDOME BUNKER 47B (17-B-3) 01/23/25 1441  TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT ORCON Classified by: LER-OPNS-IDH Dated: 2025JAN23 Not Releasable to Foreign Nationals

R. MORI: Excuse me! 

DOG HOWLING 

R. MORI: I need to see the Marshal immediately! 

DOG HOWLING 

S.O. TEBUTT: He’s in a meeting with the Secretary General!

DOG HOWLING 

R. MORI: It will only take [unintelligible]!

DOG HOWLING 

S.O. LINDUM: You can’t just [unintelligible]!

DOOR OPENING

DOG HOWLING 

S.G. KRIEGER: What the [unintelligible] is going on?

DOG HOWLING 

S.O.: TEBUTT: Ranger Mori is here to see you, sir!

DOG HOWLING

S.G. KRIEGER: I’m in a meeting! 

DOG HOWLING

R. MORI: I’m so sorry to interrupt, Secretary General! It’s Max- He won’t stop crying! 

DOG HOWLING

M. HANSEN: Come here, you ugly old mutt. 

R. MORI: I think he’s missing his master.

M. HANSEN: Yeah, I know you miss him, Max. I do too. Thank you, Ranger Mori, I’ll take him from here. Dismissed. 

R. MORI: Yes, sir. 

DOOR CLOSING

PAUSE

S.G. KRIEGER: Oh, that’s right. I don’t believe I’ve expressed my condolences yet. 

HANSEN: Thank you, Secretary Krieger. 

S.G. KRIEGER: Please, call me Dustin! There’s no need to be so formal when it’s just the two of us!

M. HANSEN: Oh, well, thank you, uh, Dustin. You can call me Herc. 

S.G. KRIEGER: Of course, Herc!

M. HANSEN: I’m sorry about Max, and once more, I’m really sorry for being so late. There was a fire in the men’s loo off the Jaeger Bay. I don’t know why they called me. I’m not that kind of bloody Marshal. 

S.G. KRIEGER: Don’t worry about it! I know what it’s like to get bothered with a problem well below your paygrade! 

PAUSE

M. HANSEN: Right. Well, enough small talk. Why don’t we get down to brass tacks? 

S.G. KRIEGER: You're a straightforward guy. I like that. I’m the same way. 

M. HANSEN: Glad to hear it, Dustin.

PAUSE

S.G. KRIEGER: Since the end of the war, there have been talks to dissolve the PPDC. I know, that’s gratitude for you, but people want to put the war behind them. If we want to save the PPDC, we need to restructure it as a fully civilian organization, bringing everything under my umbrella: Security, Medical, transport- even the eggheads in the science division. 

M. HANSEN: To do what exactly?

PAUSE

S.G. KRIEGER: Robots for Humanity. 

M. HANSEN: I beg your pardon?

S.G. KRIEGER: Just picture it. Jaegers rebuilding the regions around the Pacific Rim that were most damaged by the kaiju. We would rebrand as the Pan Pacific Development Corp. Wouldn’t even need to print new mugs. 

M. HANSEN: You want to use Jaegers to.. build houses? I think they’re a bit better at knocking ‘em down, mate. 

S.G. KRIEGER: Oh, it would mostly be for publicity, of course. We don’t want robots taking away people’s jobs! Just kidding, but we can get labor for cheap with the Wall of Life project now defunct. The Jaegers would ostensibly be to bring in donors, but we would keep development going, just in case the kaiju came back. 

M. HANSEN: The Breach is closed. 

S.G. KRIEGER: For now. Even if it’s closed for good, well, there have always been wars of one kind or another. How long do you really think we can all hold hands and sing Kumbaya, Herc? Soon enough, peacetime will come to an end. There will be war. Jaegers will be used to fight it. By the time that happens, the UN will have ceded control of the PPDC to the United States of America.

M. HANSEN: Wh- What? Why would they do that?

S.G. KRIEGER: We have a plan in place, but I’ll be honest: If we could bring the Jaegers directly into the U.S. Armed Forces, it would turn our ten-year plan into a five-year one. The only reason we were going to jettison the military division was because we knew Pentecost would never go for it, but I think you might be different, Herc. You know how the world works. You could still have a place at the new PPDC. Now, I know you’re technically Australian, but you don’t have to be.  

PAUSE

M. HANSEN: That’s very generous of you. I feel obliged to accept. 

S.G. KRIEGER: I knew it. I’ve never gone wrong trusting my gut. 

M. HANSEN: Do you really think people will let the U.S. take control of the PPDC like that?

S.G. KRIEGER: Of course they will! We stopped the war. Everybody knows Mori ejected before the payload was delivered. That was our guy! An American! Not to mention your Dr. Geizer. I will admit, I didn’t anticipate his level of celebrity, but well, if anything… people love a martyr even more. 

M. HANSEN: What are you saying?

S.G. KRIEGER: Don't act naive, Herc. I thought you were supposed to be the war-hardened vet. The doctor is an important asset, but we aren’t unrealistic about his chances for long-term survival. We’ll tell everyone it was a tragic consequence of his drift with the kaiju. It'll barely be lying. 

PAUSE

M. HANSEN: Let me make sure I understand. Dr. Geiszler is part of this- our plan?

S.G. KRIEGER: It’s called Operation Keepsake. Well, his involvement was also unanticipated, but now we’re hoping to use him to understand the hive mind. That was how he put it in his official report, right? A hive mind. Fascinating stuff, I’m sure. Of course, I didn’t understand most of it myself, but I got the gist. If two humans can pilot a 250-foot Jaeger, just think about what we could accomplish by applying hive mind technology.

PAUSE

M. HANSEN: So that’s why you asked Dr. Geiszler to meet you off-site.

S.G. KRIEGER: Well, he could hardly disappear from the hotel either! We needed to take custody of him, officially, but we needed an excuse to do it, since he was about to be cleared by medical. Fortunately, the Buenakai were already providing us with a Kaiju brain. All we had to do was pay them a little extra. 

M. HANSEN: Then why did you raid the bunker?

S.G. KRIEGER: Oh, well, that’s not important. The import-

M. HANSEN: Oh. I get it. They cut you out. You were used to the American Buenakai, who come from Kentucky and have never seen a Kaiju outside the 1:100th scale statues in their megachurches, but this wasn’t them. This was the Hau Wong Buenakai, who saw the double event and didn’t blink. Basically, they took the ransom and tried to kill the hostage anyway. Did I get that right?

S.G. KRIEGER: Well, of course the Chinazis sold us out, but we had everything under control.

M. HANSEN: So now you’re going to make Dr. Geiszler drift with the kaiju brain again. 

S.G. KRIEGER: Exactly!

M. HANSEN: Which is exactly how the damn doomsday cult was planning to reopen the Breach.

S.G. KRIEGER: That’s completely different. Besides, with the hive mind on our side, we could take the fight to them!

M. HANSEN: Well, I can see why you’re so keen on the idea of the hive mind.

S.G. KRIEGER: I knew you would be-

M. HANSEN: Considering you don’t seem to have one of your own. 

S.G. KRIEGER: Excuse me?

M. HANSEN: Well, you did just monologue your evil plan. The cult didn't even do that.

PAUSE

S.G. KRIEGER: You- You’re making a big mistake, Marshal. You have no idea what you’re going up against. It'll be your word against mine, and Representative Taylor is an old col-

M. HANSEN: Actually, it’ll be your word against the both of ours. 

PAUSE

S.G. KRIEGER: What- What are you talking about?

M. HANSEN: Secretary Taylor isn’t going to want anything to do with you if this recording goes public.

S.G. KRIEGER: You bugged the damn dog?

M. HANSEN: He has a name, you know. 

S.G. KRIEGER: Officer Tebutt! Get-

M. HANSEN: Before you try anything especially stupid, you should know that I took some precautions. I had Dr. Gottleib handle the cybersecurity, so this recording is already backed up to the cloud. If he doesn't enter a code once a day, the news goes straight to the UN and TMZ. You should also know that he is a very punctual man. 

S.G. KRIEGER: This is blackmail! 

M. HANSEN: I’m so glad you understand.

PAUSE

S.G. KRIEGER: What do you want?

M. HANSEN: Dr. Gottleib will keep entering that code on three conditions. One: You leave the Hong Kong Shatterdome now. Two: You resign from the PPDC tomorrow morning. Three: You never come near me or mine again.

S.G. KRIEGER: You- You’re just a damn grunt. I should have known you wouldn’t understand politics. You forget that I still have a piece in the game.

M. HANSEN: This isn’t a damn game, mate.  

S.G. KRIEGER: I still have your man. 

M. HANSEN: No, you don’t. 

PAUSE

S.G. KRIEGER: Dr. Geizer-

M. HANSEN: Dr. Geiszler is safe and sound. You can check in with the officers you assigned to him, if they pick up for you. The Security Office is still under my command, and more importantly, they’re my goddamn comrades- brothers, sisters, and siblings-in-arms, every last one of them. We were here at the end of the world, while you were cooling your heels Stateside. I may not understand politics, Dustin, but I don’t think you understand war.

...

@lastdaysofwar

[dragonflight203]

Mass Effect 2 replay, Arrival:

Aratoht

-The moon in the skybox is gorgeous.

-Why does Shepard assume that the presence of varren mean that prisoners are sent there to die?

They could be feral varren, or there to chase down escaped prisoners.

-As you go through the mission, you overhear guards speaking about humans planning to destroy the relay. You probably assume it’s propaganda. The twist is that it’s true.

-The guards are correct. Dr. Kenson is a terrorist. One with very good reasons, but still a terrorist.

-Logs say that interrogation only produced frenzied rambling. Probably because they’re indoctrinated.

-This isn’t all that different from what the Alliance would do if they learned a batarian cell planned to destroy a Mass Relay in a human system. Capture them, imprison them, interrogate them.

Hopefully not as severely as the batarians are doing, but they’d definitely be questioned.

-As many have pointed out, the Reaper drawing in a deceased prisoner’s cell is a clue they’re indoctrinated.

-Dr. Kenson doesn’t even ask about the others captured with her. Does she assume or know they’re already dead?

-The conversation in the shuttle with Dr. Kenson is a reversal of the normal scenario. Dr. Kenson in the one insisting on a fantastical scenario, and Shepard is the skeptic.

-Shepard raises that mass effect relays are supposed to be indestructible. Dr. Kenson replies that it’s more that no one’s wanted to find out what would happen if one was destroyed.

At least Bioware addresses the change. I’m still skeptical a large asteroid can destroy one – the Reapers want to reset organic life, not destroy it completely. If mass relays can destroy a system when they’re hit with an asteroid, that’s a rather large oversight. Surely they could be shielded or the like?

-Dr. Kenson: Even a Reaper thousand of years dead contains power. Their artifacts are worthy of study, regardless of their purpose.

How does Dr. Kenson know that dead Reapers contain power?

(She’s indoctrinated. That’s the Reaper speaking. They like to praise themselves.)

-Shepard asks how they avoided indoctrination. Dr. Kenson insists they were careful.

Later we see Object Rho out in the open. Was it always so, or did they move it after the indoctrination kicked in?

-When Shepard sees the countdown, they immediately say that the Reapers could be at Earth in two days.

So the whole “save Earth” angle of ME3 had already started in this DLC. Never mind that Shepard may have no connection to it; it’s good marketing, damn it.

Just saying, they could have said the Reapers will start their harvest in two days.

-I repeatedly reloaded the fight in the Object Rho room and again and again ran into an issue where I couldn’t target anyone. How the hell can a vanguard charge if they can’t target?

-Why do the Reapers want Shepard alive?

They stopped the plan to turn the Citadel into a relay. The player is expected to play this DLC after they’ve destroyed (or collected) the Collectors base.

The Reapers should want Shepard dead. They’re too dangerous to live. There’s no gain to keeping them alive, except maybe to indoctrinate them and use them as an agent against the galaxy.

Which would have been a fantastic twist in ME3, but ME3 prefers to pretend ME2 doesn’t exist so nothing came of that. In fact, ME3 drops the “take Shepard alive” angle entirely for no known in-universe reason.

Maybe the other Reapers held a vote and told Harbinger to shut up.

-Hmm. I’ve wondered why Kenson tells Shepard about the Project and takes them back to the base – that seems counter intuitive since Shepard will of course try to finish the job and Kenson doesn’t actually want that.

I had mostly settled on Kenson telling Shepard as an attempt to fight off the indoctrination, but once in the room with Object Rho the indoctrination took over.

However, it makes more sense as an attempt to lure Shepard into a trap and capture them. Everyone knows that Shepard will go anywhere if the word “Reaper” is mentioned. That’s how Hackett convinced Shepard to go after Kenson in the first place.

And if Shepard hadn’t been able to shake of the drugs it would have worked. The Reapers would have arrived, picked up Shepard for whatever purpose, and carried on with the harvest.

-Why was Shepard able to shake off the drugs, anyway? Side effect of the cybernetics? Built up tolerance after being kept under for two years?

-The worst part of this mission is that it puts me back in the Cerberus uniform. My Shepard burned that the moment they got their hands on other clothes.

-Shitty security returns! The door out of the med bay only has three locks.

-I loathe pyros. Once they hit you with fire you’re dead, and Shepard can’t move in ME2 so good luck avoiding them.

-How is Harbringer communicating with Shepard? They’re not even in the galaxy yet. What, did they hack the comms tower from dark space?

Just saying, you could interpret this as Shepard hallucinating Harbringer as an early sign of indoctrination. They did just spend two days sleeping next to a Reaper artifact.

Normandy

-Back on the Normandy and in Cerberus clothing again. While meeting an Alliance admiral. Who thought this was appropriate?

-Hackett about Cerberus: I don’t like Cerberus or the way they do things, but they brought you back to life and they’re actually doing something about the state of the galaxy.

Ah, the renegade to Anderson’s paragon. Let’s not forget that “actually doing something about the state of the galaxy” does not necessarily mean good things. Cerberus is doing plenty – shame it’s all evil.

-Batarians have wanted war with the Alliance for a long time.

The batarian leadership have also been indoctrinated since shortly after they discovered the Leviathan of Dis in 2163 CE. ME1 start in 2183 CE.

Do the batarians want war with the Alliance, or do the Reapers want the organics fighting each other so they don’t team up and make the harvest harder?

-Hackett should have kept Shepard’s report. Sure, it’s a grand gesture of trust to say it’s not necessary. It’s also idiotic. Hackett needs to prepare for the Reapers and Shepard’s report is the most up to date intel on their movements and plans.

Also, it might make defending Shepard easier if he knows what the hell happened.

Codex

-The Alpha Relay can be “powered by an unprecedented amount of dark energy” to connect to multiple other relays or the Citadel.

Once again, an allusion to the dark energy plot that ME3 will abandon.

-The Hegemony knows about the relay’s abilities but keeps quiet about it to avoid hostility from other species that would be concerned about it.

Unusual for the Hegemony. They normally try to provoke everyone over everything.

-Object Rho is believed to be powered by dark matter.

If Bioware had put half as much effort into foreshadowing synthesis in ME3 as they did dark energy in ME2…

And with that, I’m finally finished ME2! On to ME3!

[thewatchlistpolitics]

The Silent Coup 🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️🏴‍☠️

While the media is busy hyper-focusing on Trump’s every tantrum, the real shift in power is happening right under our noses. Forget the tweets and lawsuits. It’s not Trump we should be worried about. It’s the billionaires pulling the strings behind the scenes, using tech to quietly replace the very foundations of democracy.

AI is taking over government functions in ways you can’t even imagine. We're talking about algorithms replacing human decision-making in Social Security, healthcare, law enforcement, and more. These decisions aren’t made by elected officials anymore—they’re being made by tech corporations with zero accountability. 🏛️💼

Enter the "AI coup".

Eryk Salvaggio, a hacker and media artist, warns we’re in the middle of a silent takeover. No tanks, no martial law—just cubicle by cubicle, as tech moguls embed themselves in government to run the show with AI. And the scariest part? We’re letting it happen, quietly accepting it as innovation.

Remember how Trump enabled Musk, Thiel, and others to gain control? Now, Musk’s DOGE team is developing AI-powered systems to govern federal agencies. AI isn’t just optimizing. It’s replacing governance.

What does this mean for you? Fewer human interactions with government services. No accountability for the decisions made by soulless algorithms. Healthcare, benefits, and even your tax returns—decided by machines that don’t care about fairness or transparency.

We’re living in a new political world order, where populist figures like Trump give cover for corporate oligarchs to seize control. This isn't about cutting red tape. This is about replacing democracy with technocratic rule, all while we argue over meaningless distractions. 🏴‍☠️

Why does it matter? Because we’re on the verge of a post-democratic world. Sure, elections will still happen, but the real decisions will be made by tech billionaires running AI systems behind the scenes. 💀

We’re heading towards a corporate-run state, where AI and Big Tech control the narrative. You won’t just be living in their world. You’ll be living by their rules. If we don’t stop this now, it’ll be too late.

⚡ What can we do? ⚡

Fight back. Demand oversight and transparency in AI-driven governance.

Talk to people—make them understand what’s happening before it’s too late.

Demand action. Let’s ensure AI doesn’t replace democracy but serves it instead.

Click the link to my Substack. There's a letter/template and instructions on where to send it to demand stronger AI legislation.

This isn’t a political issue. This is a fight for the future of our democracy. If we don’t act, we’re handing over the keys to a new world order—one run by a few tech oligarchs who don’t care about you, me, or anyone else.