#toonce thoughts

[telleroftime]

Imagine Sukuna letting you wash his hair. He's never allowed it before but he heard some ladies in high society talk about how their maids washed their bodies for them from time to time and as a man that likes to try everything - he summoned you to the bathing chamber just so that you could do it.

You, the head servant, had simply assumed that Sukuna intended for you to bring him something. Perhaps the oils in the water were not to his liking, or perhaps he forgot a towel. But no, he orders you to wash his hair for him.

He doesn't think he would enjoy it. He stops you a few times during it too, his hand gripping your wrist before he relents. And when you finally lather the products in his hair? He cannot stop the content rumble from leaving his throat. He relaxes against the edge of the water as his back presses more firmly against your knees that stick out over the edge. You're delicate and that surprises him. He's not used to that, even from his concubines.

You comb his hair too, rinsing it with rice water and making sure each knot is brushed out. He likes it. He will never admit that he likes it, but he does. And you know he does when he summons you once per week to do it again and again. And of course, no one else gets the privilege.

[just-about-nothing]

not shane madej going ‘toonces the cat who can drive’ in the most recent watcher podcast & me a) know promptly what he was talking about & b) muttering ‘the point is the cat can’t drive’ on cue

[legaciesandothernonsense]

Rebuilding - Willow Creek 1.9

Dillin, with help from Toonces, helped Clement to sit up

"There you go, buddy"

"Ah..."

Poor little dude didn't make it

It was Clement's first time with solids

He didn't seem to happy about it

Mandy is still in her bear phase

Dillin, meanwhile, was also working on his homework

"Toonces...you can't have my food. Your bowl is full"

Are you kidding me right now?

Even Clement is judging you

I thought Lilith was here to bite someone but she was chatting with Ghost!J

At this point, Dillin and Zoe should be customers of the month

In other news, Clement aged up

He doesn't seem too happy about it though

Clement: -Babbles-

Mandy: But why...

Reminder that Clement is fussy and hates everything

Mandy took an interest in basketball

Dillin was so proud

Clement was finally happy during playtime

(And Betty increases my rage)

"And then the baby dinosaurs found their parents and lived happily ever after"

WHY

I think they do this on purpose

This house is chaos on any given day

It's Mandy's birthday!

She has Dillin's lips, no botox needed

Updated Family Photo

or where Toonces is ignored

--

These cats are out to get me

I have since locked the door for them. I'd like to see them get sick now

[mafaldaknows]

Tiny Horse is the new Toonces 💕🐎💕😂🥳

[stopforamoment]

Grocery Shopping with Rinda

TRR after Book Three Bastien Lykel and OFC Rinda Parks Word Count: 1,489 (sorry, Enna!) Rated E for Everyone but TRIGGERS: Mention of a pet’s death and pet owner grief. Obligatory Disclaimer: Bastien Lykel belongs to Pixelberry, but Rinda and Henry Parks are all mine! A/N: This is for @emceesynonymroll second wacky drabbles challenge, “this is what I deal with everyday.” I modeled this after shopping for groceries in the United States, and a variation of these things have happened to me at one time or another. I think I need to work on my resting bitch face so people don’t randomly approach me, LOL. This takes place when Rinda and Bastien are still working together, before they started dating. Bastien still doesn’t know the full crazy train of Rinda Parks. TRIGGERS: Mention of a pet’s death and pet owner grief.

Grocery Shopping with Rinda 

“Mom, we don’t have time for this.”

“Ten minutes, Bug. I just need brown sugar and chocolate chips to make cookies for tomorrow.”

Bastien raised an eyebrow when he saw Henry sigh loudly and shake his head. “I’m telling you, we won’t have enough time.”

They walked into the store and Rinda grabbed a shopping basket, but she immediately got distracted by the wall of sales. “Oh, canned vegetables are on sale. Hold on, we can stock up on those. Let me grab a cart.”

She turned around and Henry was already there with a cart, his hand out waiting to take the basket from his mother and return it.

Bastien watched, an amused expression on his face, as Rinda began hoarding cans of food. But she opened up the child seat of the cart and put half of the cans in the seat area, and half in the basket portion of the cart.

They walked into the produce section, and Rinda saw a father with small children looking over the fresh fruits and vegetables. One of the children asked for strawberries, but the father said they were too expensive.

After the family walked away, Rinda put the strawberries in the seat portion of her cart.

They made it to the baking aisle, but an elderly gentleman was looking at cake mixes in utter confusion. He locked eyes with Rinda, and she smiled and began walking over as he began to ask, “Can you help me?”

His wife needed him to bring a cake mix home. Just a basic cake mix like she always made for him. He knew it wasn’t chocolate, but he wasn’t sure which one. Rinda asked if the cake normally looked white or yellow. It was yellow. Rinda quickly stopped the man from grabbing a lemon cake mix, and instead steered him toward the yellow cake mix. His wife might have preferred the golden butter recipe, but at least he wasn’t going home with white or lemon cake mix.

Now a young woman approached Rinda, wondering what bakers cheese was. Rinda double checked if it was for a cheesecake. It was. It was hard to find dry ground bakers cheese anymore, but Ricotta was a good substitution. Where was Ricotta cheese? The refrigerator section. Here, it was just easier to show the woman.

Rinda turned around to Henry, who had already put the brown sugar and chocolate chips in the cart and was waiting patiently to follow his mom. Bastien trailed behind, still observing their interactions.

They found the Ricotta cheese, but it took a little bit longer as Rinda looked over the recipe and made a few suggestions. The girl wanted to make it for her boyfriend. It was a family recipe, and his mom emailed the recipe, but Rinda wanted to double check if there were any typos, since it made a difference if you used an upper-case T for tablespoon or a lower-case t for teaspoon. Fifteen minutes later Rinda knew the dating history of the couple and how the young woman was still worried if his mom liked her or not (Rinda reassured the young woman that if his mother gave her a family recipe, then mom definitely liked her).

Bastien wished the young girl good luck as she walked away, and the woman beamed, oblivious to Henry’s impatient foot tapping.

Then it happened. What Henry was most dreading. A child from school recognized Mrs. Parks and wanted to say “hi.” Then what Rinda most dreaded happened. The child’s parents wanted to ask school-related questions about a long-term project their child was working on. Even though Rinda didn’t have time for this discussion, she patiently smiled and re-explained the assignment for the child--and the parents. When the parents asked questions about whether or not their child was doing the assignment correctly, Rinda politely ignored the helicopter parents’ questions and instead asked the child what he was doing and what questions he had. Then she reassured the child that he could always his teachers questions if he wasn’t sure about something.

When that discussion was squared away, Rinda politely reminded the parents that they needed volunteers for an upcoming fundraiser. Could she could on them for help? The parents squirmed but said “yes.” Rinda smiled warmly and thanked them for being so generous with their time. The school couldn’t do it without dedicated parents like them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the father with the children headed toward the checkout, and she quickly excused herself and made a beeline for the self-checkout. Henry whipped the cart around and struggled after his mom, but Bastien was caught talking to the parents for a bit longer about their concerns for their child’s safety. It was traumatic for children to take part in school safety drills.

Dammit, Rinda! Where are you? This is your area of expertise.

By the time he extricated himself from the parents, with a promise that he’d have Rinda talk to them with more details, he didn’t know where she was. Their cart was off to the side near the checkout area, but Henry and Rinda were nowhere to be found.

Henry came running from behind a checkout line, a happy smile on his face. He saw Mr. Lykel standing by the cart and said his mom was in the pet supply aisle. Bastien had a look of pure confusion on his face. Rinda and Henry didn’t have a pet in Cordonia. Their dog was still in Wisconsin. But he did notice the strawberries were no longer in the cart, and Henry turned to give the father and his children another goodbye wave.

Rinda was on the floor in the pet aisle, holding a sobbing woman who had to put her cat down only days ago. Between racking sobs the woman was telling Rinda all the wonderful stories about her cat. Toonces was twenty years old. She had Toonces since she was a child, and she held Toonces in her arms and felt that last shudder when the vet . . . Rinda made gentle shushing noises. She knew what the woman meant. She did the same thing when her cat was old and in pain. And Rinda knew Toonces felt safe and loved at the end. He was in his fur mama’s arms, getting kisses and gentle scratches behind his ears, just the way Toonces liked it. Of course Toonces understood why his mama had to say goodbye.

Bastien knelt on the floor next to the woman and gently pressed a handkerchief into her hand. Rinda smiled at Bastien’s gesture. He was so kind and thoughtful, and she loved that about him.

When the woman was finally able to stand up, she and Rinda looked at the box of cat treats in her cart. That’s what started the woman crying. It was her first time shopping after her cat died, and without thinking she went into the pet aisle to buy Toonces’ favorite treat. When she dropped the treats into the cart it hit her, and she fell to the floor crying. That’s where Rinda found the woman on her way to the self-check out with Henry, and Rinda quickly gave Henry some cash to buy the strawberries while she went to see if she could help the woman.

The woman stood still, unable to move. “May I?” The woman didn’t respond, so Rinda slowly, gently took the treats out of the cart. She paused, waiting to see if the woman would react. She didn’t, so Rinda put the treats back on the shelf. Then she squeezed the woman’s hand. “Will you be okay? Is there anyone I can call for you?”

Bastien took the woman’s other hand. “Please. Let us help you to the checkout and then we’ll be sure you have someone to take you home.” Rinda and Henry went through the check out, and she was going to add the woman’s groceries to her own bill, but Bastien shook his head and paid for the woman’s groceries himself. Rinda nodded and made sure the check out worker put the cans from the child seat into separate bags, and those were placed in the food donation bin on their way out. Meanwhile, Bastien helped the woman with her grocery bags. When they were outside he helped the woman call a friend, and Bastien, Rinda, and Henry patiently waited until the woman and her groceries were safe in the friend’s car.

It was over an hour since they entered the store, and Rinda looked at her watch and sighed. “We don’t have time to bake cookies. I have to go back inside and buy some from the bakery.”

Bastien’s eyes widened in alarm. They’d never get back to Rinda’s house and get any work done if she went back in there again, but Henry calmly shrugged. “This is what I deal with every day.”

[cry-away-the-monsters]

“I-I’m glad you like i-it,” she stammers, smiling. She pauses though, noticing that her stutter’s gone almost entirely back to normal. She doesn’t comment on it though, finding it odd, but she’s definitely not complaining. She lets out a small hum in response to his laughter, then she nods at his comment on other movies. “I-I haven’t seen either o-of those...I meant t-to, but I didn’t b-because I was too n-nervous to be in a-a theatre. I’ve heard m-mixed thoughts about the S-Sonic movie, but I d-did hear it was b-better than people thought,” she replies. She gets her attention back to the one they’re watching.

Hearing Fred’s line “what would you do if you didn’t like me?”, Angel leans her head back and facepalms. “F-Fred, your evil crush’s a-actions in parallel universes a-are the least of y-your worries!” she cries in exasperation before laughing softly, then she pauses. “Y-you know, this movie g-gives cat owners a b-bad name,” she jokes, laughing a bit again. This movie is corny and ridiculous, and she’ll always love it for being both of those things. She moves Casey a little when she gets out of place, looking up toward the screen again when she’s back in place. “S-see, this is why y-you always listen to V-Velma, or at least g-get her to tell y-you someone’s lying before y-you get stuck to a-a wall via voodoo dolls.”

She can’t help but make a few quips. It’s just too fun to not make a few. She only really does that during movies because her voice is so quiet; usually people can catch her quip and the lines at the same time, so she doesn’t usually disrupt it.

When Jacques turns into the cat creature, Angel giggles a little looking back at Springtrap. “S-see, you pull off th-the nearly full animal l-look so much better th-than that. You make it l-look adorable and attractive,” she comments, gesturing toward the screen. “Th-that looks like Toonces th-the cat turned into a-a fursuit. You’re clearly s-superior,” she adds, laughing a bit again and resting her hand on the bed. She then uses her free arm to hold Casey, giggling a little before falling quiet again to let the adventure part of the movie play out. She can’t help but giggle a little at her own jokes though. She’s not really used to being the one being comfortable making them.

She scoots over a bit to sit closer to him, briefly leaning over to kiss his cheek, sitting back up to get back to Casey. Casey happily eats, deeming very calm now that she’s awake and in her mother’s arms. Her tiny hands mostly stay on Angel’s breast, though they wave around a tiny bit as well, patting at Angel’s exposed one. Angel laughs at the baby’s activity, leaning over slightly to kiss the top of the infant’s head. Very awkward looking...but hey, she wants to give her daughter some attention. She furrows her brow as she smiles down at the newborn, letting out a small sigh.

“I-I can’t get over j-just how beautiful they a-are...they’re so precious...” she stammers, then she glances back at Springtrap and giggles a little more. “I-I shouldn’t be surprised, th-th-though...with one handsome d-devil for a father, o-of course they’d be b-beautiful~”

The 5’3” brunette woman looks up at the oddly familiar-looking, rather grotesque, decayed version of the bunny mascot she once saw dancing around on a stage as a child, looking at him with a very confused look on her soft, rounded face, as though trying to figure out what the hell to say. “S-so uhm. Are you a-actually Spring Bonnie?” she stammers, a very soft voice coos out, a rather thick but pretty English accent quite noticeable. [[ cry-away-the-monsters ]]

“…Technically. I was once Spring Bonnie, I always wore this suit. It was mine…now I’m trapped in it forever. I call myself Springtrap now.” He responded, standing much taller than the woman, seeing as he was 7 foot. “It’s not so bad, I get to live forever and be something else…” He noticed how she had the same accent at him, it was not too often he met anyone around from where he was born. “You shouldn’t be here though, it’s dangerous…”

@cry-away-the-monsters

[tinadesh]

Yesterday, I said goodbye to my beloved companion of 16 years, Emmett Toonces Wilde DeShields. He was from a feral colony and for the first 3 months hissed at me until he found out I had turkey lunch meat and from then on, he was a Mama's boy. He was fond of cheese, catnip bubbles and laying on my legs until they fell asleep. He was my comforter and my protector. He liked yodel at closed doors and when he'd get annoyed with me, he'd stomp off to the bedroom...and would close the door. Brat. He was a straight up weirdo who liked to eat moths and sniff my knees, and my nose and my forehead. Like, I said, weirdo. I will miss my nighttime cuddles and the way he would increase his weight to a ton when he didn't want to move from any comfortable position. He was afraid of thunder, but had no problem bullying his much bigger and younger brother away from his food. And then would have the nerve to yell for more food. Brat. He was diagnosed with kidney disease last year. His vet thought he'd pass away soon after that, but since he was so contrary, he made it to 18 months. I'm glad I got the extra time, but really, there's never enough time with the animals you love. I will miss him. https://www.instagram.com/p/B_ssMzNhsfN/?igshid=1ts8j8rtrx517

[weepingandgnashingofteeth]

when i was little my dad always joked about this old snl skit about "toonces the driving cat" and he showed it to us and i just thought about how bizarre it was. oh and every episode had that same ending

[classicajays]

I just watched a toonces sketch and I love it so much

Those sketches were great, always silly but fun to watch.  They were written by Jack Handey, the same guy that did those “Deep Thought” sketches.

[ladystylestores]

NATO Imagines Future Warfare

Innovation is a key component of readiness when it comes to future threats. NATO’s Innovation Hub recently commissioned a short story from author August Cole, asking him to draw upon his writing and imaginative abilities to create a picture of what NATO operations could be like in the year 2040. The Cipher Brief is pleased to be able to bring you 2040: KNOWN ENEMIES, with permission from NATO.

CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES — PARIS, FRANCE

The protestors’ braying air horns reminded Alain Durand of the feel of his father’s hand squeezing his as they watched the Tour de France peloton speed by on a verdant hill outside Chambéry, half a lifetime ago. Tonight on the Champs Elysees it meant drones. It meant gas.

He carefully pushed aside two old fashioned white cloth banners — “PAX MACHINA” and “NON AUX ARMEES, NON A LA GUERRE,” written in thick red brush strokes to better see. In a field of view populated with synthetic representations of the real world, the banners were anachronistic but also enduring. They spoke to the necessary spirit of dissent in one of Europe’s more temperamental democracies, Alain thought. Yet it was time to change again: France was the last NATO member, other than the United States, to maintain conventional combat forces. The other members had already robotized.

“A matter of not just tradition but national survival,” his father, a colonel in France’s 3e Régiment de Parachutistes d’Infanterie de Marine, always insisted.

The horns stopped. The crowd of thousands hushed to better hear the whine of the oncoming Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité riot-police crowd-control drones, a sound like a frantically played piccolo. It was a child’s sound — that was why it intimidated. The flight of a dozen drones hovered in a picket formation in front of the crowd of more than 10,000 marching along the cobbled stones toward the Arc de Triomphe. On Alain’s augmented reality glasses, the bots were bright orange dots, tagged with comments from around the world guiding him on everything from how to download apps to jam their controllers to offers of legal representation. Alain reached into his satchel and cursed, as an ad for gas mask replacement filters popped into view.

A protestor’s drone, bright yellow and the size of an espresso cup, darted past him, then returned to hover in front of his face. It was filming. He could see the live feed it broadcast on his own glasses, identifying him as the son of a senior army officer. He looked around, feeling a need to disappear in the crowd even though that was impossible. He swatted at the yellow drone, and it darted off.

Was that a Catalyst design?, he wondered. The mysterious informal global network emerged on the public stage about three years ago, fomenting dissent and countergovernment action in the virtual realm. It started with what was essentially algo-busting or AI-enabled augmented-reality pranks to make a point about excessive Chinese and American influence around the world. But in the last six months, something had changed, and they were now moving from the online to the real world, supplying not only plans for printable grenades or swarm drones but also the fabs to make them. They had never tried to operate in Europe before, or the U.S. Was this drone a sign something was changing, literally before his own eyes?

Those same eyes began to itch. He had other things to worry about for the moment.

“Juliet, I don’t have my mask,” he said to his sister. She already had hers, a translucent model with a bubble-like faceplate that made her look like a snorkeler.

“And?” she said.

“I am certain I put it in there, but …” he trailed off.

She sighed angrily, condensation briefly fogging her mask. Four years younger, his 15-year-old sister could judge him harshly. She got that from their father.

“We stay,” she said, passing him a bandana and bottle of water. “Parliament votes tomorrow. Father is already deployed. If we leave now, when will we ever stand?”

“Ok, ok,” Alain muttered. He wet the bandana and braced himself for the gas.

Drones dashed just a few feet overhead, a disorienting swirl of straining electric motors and the machines’ childlike tone. The crowd sighed all at once and then individual shouting erupted around him. A moment later his eyes began to sting. Fumbling with the bandana he quickly wrapped the wet cloth around his mouth. But, eyes now burning, he struggled to tie it around his neck. With so much gas in the air, no one without a mask would be able any more to continue watching the eruption of digital dissent. He felt Juliet’s fingers on his neck, helping secure the bandana’s knot. Hands now free, he angrily pumped his fists in the air and blindly grasped to help hold his cloth banners aloft.

JULIUS NYERERE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT — DAR-ES-SALAAM, TANZANIA

It was so hot, when the convoy stopped at the main gate to the joint United Nations-African Union compound, that the German and Italian battle bots broke formation. The NATO task force’s hundreds of small armored wheeled and tracked machines jerked and shimmied like ants as they fought over the shade beneath the bright blue revetments — towering stacks of shipping containers reinforced with blast-foam. That left the French para forces, what NATO classified as a light-effects company due to its mostly non-robotic composition under, in the crushing heat with nowhere to go. That was fine for the French unit’s commander, Luc Durand. His men and women could handle the heat; the bots were another story.

Captain Monika Toonce hopped off one of the oversized German Jaeger crawlers and jogged over to Durand’s open scout car. The French convoy included the jeep, six-wheeled troop carriers (each carrying 12 paratroopers as well as external racks of offensive and defensive smallbots), and four mules loaded with ammunition, spare parts, and assorted spider-like fixers.

“Colonel, we are still waiting for the clear codes before the task force can enter the compound,” Toonce said. She paused to wipe sweat from her nose. “Headquarters said they sent them. But they are not yet authenticated here …”

Durand cursed. The bots would not yet be cleared for self-defense, let alone offensive use. He forced himself to ease back and put his boot up on his jeep’s wheel well, a pose he could hold for hours on a high-speed cross-desert dash or pulling security at a vital intersection. This is an old problem in a new form, he thought. This is why the French army trains to fight with or without machines. “La victoire ne se donne pas!” was the motto adopted four years ago.

Deconflicting the newly arrived German and Italian anti-armor/aircraft and counter-personnel bots with the existing UN-AU peacekeeping forces — so that they didn’t automatically attack one another — was just another form of confusion and complexity. For all the advantage the machines offered, they also brought the onset of the fog of war forward that much earlier in a conflict. Ignoring Toonce, Durand drew with his finger on the dusty screen he wore at his waist, a series of arrows to sketch out a concept. He snapped a picture of the tracings with his glasses; it was something he would write up when he got back from deployment. You never know where inspiration will come from.

“Ok, you want to ride with us then? We are heading in. The machines can handle themselves, no?” Durand said.

Toonce looked torn between waiting with the disabled bots or accompanying Durand. Her responsibility for the German armored forces was a significant one, given the expense and competition for deployment-likely slots in the Bundeswehr. There were fewer soldiers in the German army today than there were postal carriers in Bavaria. Why they kept so many of the latter and so few of the former us was not something Toonce allowed herself to weigh too deeply. She loved the army, loved her comrades and their machines.

Toonce nodded. The maintenance techs were still on the way. She was the sole German representative, and she told herself she needed to be present when the NATO task force leaders finally presented themselves.

The two soldiers were in a narrow pause, a lull — in what had been fevered fighting — that the NATO task force had taken advantage of to deploy by air from a staging area outside Nairobi.

“Good choice,” Durand said. Toonce hopped on. Durand smiled at the master sergeant in the seat next to him, who tapped the jeep’s dash twice with the sort of gentle encouragement one might give a beloved horse. The vehicle advanced on its own at the gentle command.

They proceeded inside the compound under the watching guns of a pair of stork-legged Nigerian sentry turrets, each armed with a trio of four-barreled Gatling guns mounted on the mottled-grey fuselage pod.

Serge Martelle, the para master sergeant, handed Durand a palm-sized screen, a phone that used the local civilian networks.

“Seen this, sir?” Martelle asked.

A sigh. An image appeared of Alain’s face, jaw clenched and wide eyed, in the midst of a Paris protest. Again.

“No, not now, Martelle,” Durand said. A nod and he withdrew the screen. But Durand pulled up footage on his glasses, already tagged to his own and his son’s social media accounts. The final image was a bleary-eyed and red-faced Alain holding aloft the “PAX MACHINA.” It is Bastille Day after all, isn’t it. Durand smiled as they pulled up to a Kenyan general and his staff, standing at attention.

AU-UN HEADQUARTERS — DAR-ES-SALAAM, TANZANIA

“It’s not a mystery, as such, but we are not yet certain who is supplying the rogue Tanzanian army elements, as well as other local elements. But we can ascertain that they are currently involved in a rapid-equipping cycle using established and improvised fabrication sites that …”

“It’s Catalyst,” Durand barked. “Just call it out!” It was too easy to be rude to the UN Peacekeeping Office AIs; they were atrocious. Indecisive. Burdened with a politeness programmed to appease too many sensibilities. And that accent, unattached to any country’s native tongue, is an affront, he thought.

“Colonel Durand, analysis indicates a probability of certainty of—” the machine responded, now using a careful ethereal cadence to mollify Durand.

“General Kimani, with respect, how might we begin to engage an adversary that we refuse to identify?” Durand pressed the point. If the AU UN force acknowledged an “outbreak” of Catalyst coercive technologies, it would require an escalation of military presence that neither organization wanted to endorse at this point in the crisis.

“The last twenty-seven hours have seen no fighting,” Kimani responded. “We are hoping to use this window for dialogue.” He was the senior officer of the AUMIT, or African Union Mission in Tanzania. His charge included the military aspects of the peacekeeping mission, as well as coordinating with UN and quasi-governmental conflict-resolution groups trying to cool the conflict. “Right now, we’re running a Blue Zone dialogue with the dissident Tanzanian army, UN negotiators, Front Civil, and others. An invitation was extended to Catalyst, but no response.”

Durand nodded. Why would this highly disruptive and increasingly dangerous movement join in? It had no leaders. No clear strategy. He viewed French military intelligence’s take as sound: Catalyst sought to undermine US or Chinese economic, political, and military blocs of strategic influence to enable sub-national movements of self-determination.

The Blue Zones were private virtual environments managed by UN AIs to facilitate non-confrontational negotiations with machine-speed modelling and data. Some even talked of the platform’s AIs themselves being nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. If Kimani really believed the UN could speed that diplomatic cycle up before the rearming of the Tanzanian coup forces then there was a chance this could resolve without further violence. Durand knew him by reputation and instinctively trusted him. Then he ground his teeth. He was being too optimistic. But what were the odds some Catalyst algos weren’t already spoofing that whole thing? It happened before, in Venezuela, in ’38. They never joined these kinds of hand-holding sims.

His watch buzzed. Toonce reported the clearance codes were finally being transmitted and would be uploaded shortly. Having the NATO mech forces inside the base would make him feel better as they could be re-checked, zeroed, and synched with the UN and AU bots already in the area of operations. NATO-reinforced UN and AU patrols could begin the next morning, he hoped. Leave the conciliation and negotiation to the UN. He had his mission.

On his glasses, Durand cued up his task force’s status reports, and began watching the downloading of the clearance codes. Details mattered, even more so with machines. As a leader you had to stay on top of it. He focused on the data and half-listened as Kimani spoke for another minute. A Rwandan officer began discussing the Belgian food fab facility near the port about to be brought online.

Blasting horns brought conversation to an abrupt stop. Half of the attendees around the table jolted upright, standing and holding the conference table with white-knuckled grips as if bracing for a bodily impact. Durand remained seated and sighed. He locked eyes with Kimani, who shook his head. An attack with a warning was one you would survive, they both knew. It’s the strikes that come without any heads up that get you.

His glasses blinked, a scratching and pixelated green snow, then returned to showing the download progress of the clear codes. Stuck at seventy-six percent. Martelle was already on his notepad, ensuring the French paras inside the compound were ready for what came next. Of course they would be, he knew. That also gave him calm.

The door burst open and Toonce paused to catch her breath. She wiped dust from her mouth and began to speak.

“The clear codes were hijacked,” she said. “Catalyst payload rode the packets, but it’s not a Tanzanian Army attack. They got partially hit, too — at least their Chinese systems, from what I can tell already. One of the local groups it looks like, based on analytics. Took the task force bots and mechs down. Same with the AU and UN already deployed here. They’re trying to bring the whole country to a stop, they say, to start real negotiations.”

“How did they attack, exactly?”“They used the clear codes to target our bots’ firmware, forcing a factory reset that requires hard keys that only exist back with the civilians at the defense ministries. We, as the deployed German army, don’t even hold those. Same with the Italians. As for the Tanzanian army systems they got from the PLA, I don’t know anything for sure, but seem to be down, too.”

That might seem fortuitous, but Durand immediately looked at it another way: If Catalyst elements could wipe out the Tanzanian army’s reliance on Chinese platforms, that would be a blank slate for a new dependence on easily downloadable and fabbable Catalyst systems. Tanzania would probably acquire the Doktor anti-armor system, a simple self-firing short-barreled launcher that could be concealed in a backpack or mounted with suction-grips to a driverless vehicle, and maybe Viper launchers, a short-range 64-shot swarm weapon about the size of a concrete block that could be held and aimed by two handles or prepositioned to strike on its own.

Nearby explosions — one, two, three — rocked the room and knocked out the lights. Sounds like mortars. In the darkness, as Durand began to taste dust in the air, he conferred with Martelle about what to do next. His paras might be the only truly friendly combat-capable force in the area right now.

CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES — PARIS, FRANCE

Wringing out the handkerchief for a third time into the café’s brown-stained sink, Alain finally had the courage to look into the cracked mirror. Black splotches beneath the edges of the glass stained the edges of the reflective surface, framing a specter’s raw, red eyes peering back from an inky cloud.

“Oof,” he sighed. The neck of his black shirt was torn, by whom he could not remember. Claw-like scratches ran along his neck from his left ear down to his opposite clavicle. The blond girl who was shot in the legs? Or was it the CRS trooper who hit him with the mace?

A gentle knock on the door. “Everything Ok?”

That was his sister.

“A moment,” he said. He wiped his face with a coarse paper towel one more time, then put his augmented reality glasses back on. He tinted the lenses light blue. “I’m coming.”

Back out into the café, he rejoined his sister. A coffee waited, and he carefully touched its side with shaking fingers. Still warm. He closed his eyes and sipped the bitter espresso, grateful for the company of his sister and the tranquility of the café. Police drones raced by every few minutes, but no police were going to stop in here. They had other concerns right now responding to the attacks on the Champs-Élysées.

AU-UN HEADQUARTERS — DAR-ES-SALAAM, TANZANIA

Through thick black smoke, one of the tall two-legged defense turrets spun its gun mounts in lazy circles like a pinwheel. It did not fire as a swarm of bird-sized winged drones flew past in a corkscrew formation toward a far corner of the compound used for medevac flights. A series of blue strobe-like flashes followed by a sound like tearing paper meant that part of the camp would no longer be usable, Durand knew.

“Whose drones?” he asked aloud, looking around for Martelle.

“TA,” Martelle shouted, meaning “Tanzanian Army.” Normally, Martelle could look up with his glasses and get a read-out of the environment, seeing detailed information on everything from bandwidth to physical objects just as if he were going shopping. But since he had been on the base network during the attack, he saw nothing except fingerprint smudges and dust.

Yet after emerging from the bunker, the French officer knew where to find his soldiers. He sprinted at a low crouch toward a dispersed arrangement of vehicles set up in defensive positions. He greeted a soldier crouched near the rear flank of an AMX-3 armored vehicle. The paratrooper had set up a camoflage brown pop-up ballistic shield and was aiming a 10-year-old portable defense weapon skyward. These double-barreled shoulder-fired kinetic and microwave weapons were not connected to the base network or even the vehicles they were carried on, and so were still able to autonomously shoot down incoming shells and drones.

“Getting started a bit earlier than we wanted,” Durand said.

“Always ready, no?” said the soldier, whose chest armor name-plate read Orbach.

Durand held up the tablet he wore at his waist, and tapped it against the soldier’s forearm-mounted screen. Between the hastily broken up meeting and this physical connection, the mission-management AIs hosted on Durand’s tablet had created a plan of action based on years of training and real-world operations led by the colonel.

“There you go, Orbach. You have everything you need? Maybe I can fire up a fab for a nice coffee for you?”

Orbach smiled and nodded.

“Now get ready,” Durand said. “Let’s get out of this mess here and go start some trouble.”

Orders given, the information would spread rapidly from soldier to soldier, vehicle to vehicle, by direct or indirect laser transmission. Reliable, tightband, and perfect for a situation like this. Somebody might intercept it, but that was true with everything, wasn’t it?

At once, half the French paras moved to their vehicles, as the other half began climbing the shipping containers. Thanks to the task force’s own orbital sensors, unaffected by the attack so far, Durand had targets. Conventional doctrine emphasized machine vs. machine engagements, but he was going to be doing something far riskier. And more important: targeting the individuals who were the contacts, or nodes, for the Catalyst technologies. There was no time to waste staying inside the protection the base afforded. The Catalyst systems were learning and improving, from the first wave of attacks. Iterative warfare required ferocious speed and more initiative than most leaders were comfortable with.

A text message from Toonce appeared on Durand’s glasses. The UN base’s network was back up. Wait. Based on the auburn-colored text and the blue triangle icon, this was a message being sent via an encrypted consumer messaging app.

“I’m printing new logic cores for the defensive bots first, then the offensive systems. We have 213,” Toonce said.

“Of course,” Durand responded, a subvocal command converted to text. “How long?”

“Six hours.”

“And if you alternate printing, say, one defensive then one offensive, so there is … balance in our capability? I will not wait for the AU forces to regenerate. There is a window here we have to take before another round of upgrades by Tanzanian Army forces, or whoever else is equipping with Catalyst systems. We are moving out now.”

He closed out the conversation. Six hours would become 12, which would become a day delaying until the machines were ready. Durand’s paras were primed to fight now. La Victoire ne se donne pas.

Inside and atop the trucks and jeeps, the soldiers began cueing up virtual representations of their targets. The drivers took manual control, the safest option at a time like this. Less than a minute later, Durand and Martell were back in the scout car, with the commander buckling on his armor. The convoy rolled forward at a walking pace toward the base’s main gate. Some of the paras cast wary glances at the glitching Nigerian defense bots, which swayed back and forth atop their stork-like legs. Other soldiers looked for the two para sniper teams protectively watching from atop the shipping containers. As the vehicles advanced, the snipers flew a quartet of Aigle reconnaissance drones to scout routes established by Durand’s AIs.

The French soldiers were not the only ones rushing to action. Holding a water bottle in his lap, Martelle watched a squad of Kenyan infantry worked carefully to clear the medevac flight pad, guiding a pair of eight-legged explosive ordnance disposal bots as they cleared the area of micro-munitions left behind by the Catalyst swarm. The “confetti mines” were the size of an old postage stamp, paper-like explosives that detonated when their millimeters-thin bodies were bent or cracked. Coiled tight around titanium spools stored inside the bird-like drones, the mines fluttered to the ground by the hundreds, arming as they fell. One mine alone might not be enough to injure a person or even a machine. But if one detonated, it triggered other nearby mines.

“Martelle, hey,” Durand said.

“Sir,” Martelle responded, nodding. He took a drink of water.

“They have their job. We have ours.”

“Always ready. Onward,” Martelle said.

A tap on the pad at his waist and Durand urged the column forward. The base’s thick-plasticrete barrier-gates at its main entrance swung outward like arms extending for an embrace. Durand held his breath as his jeep was the first through, out into the open area beyond the base. With a feeling of regret, he passed intricate human-sized pyramids of dust-covered German and Italian bots, looking like cairns on a forgotten desert trail. It was as if in their final moments they sought to join together out of fear. He did not need those machines to complete this mission, but he would be lying to himself if he did not admit that they could make a life-or-death difference for his soldiers.

“Faster now,” said Durand. “We have our objectives, now we—”

His glasses vibrated painfully.

“MISSION ABORT,” read the message, a bright red scrawl of flashing characters.

This was no time to stop. He swiped it aside, and motioned for Martelle to keep driving.

Then General Kimani broke through with a direct audio feed.

“Colonel, you need to return to base. Mission abort. Confirm?”

There was no way to lock the officer out. Unlike with a fully autonomous formation, there was no “kill switch” for Durand’s troops. He led them, fully.

“We are en route to the objectives, general. You can see our target set; it has been approved by the task force command.”

The jeep slewed to the right, around a broken-down Tanzanian Army T-99X tank, a self-driving Chinese model that was exported throughout Africa, complete with stock PLA green-and-brown digital camo.

“No longer. PKO and AU leadership just made the call. They do not want your troops hunting down individuals in the city. Their models say it will just worsen the situation for civilians, everybody.”

Worsen? Durand thought. Isn’t it already bad enough?

“So,” said Durand. “That’s it?”

“I am going to propose another target set. Only bots, fabs, and cyber targets. No humans. We can deploy the task forces systems in six hours, I understand. Your paras can be on standby.”

Machines targeting machines, said Durand. That’s all they want any more.

He braced his leg and leaned back in his seat as his vehicle accelerated onto a deserted artery flanked by half a kilometer of torched and roofless four-story buildings. He looked back over his shoulder at the trailing convoy. His troops were there, following.

August Cole is co-author of Burn-In: A Novel of the Real Robotic Revolution

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[telleroftime]

Thinking of Takuma x Reader where Takuma gets turned into a plush toy for like a few days as a side effect of some curse user, so Reader takes care of him...

... I don't know, something about him remembering everything that happened- when Reader was just so affectionate to a toy -it really really gets me. Just talking to him knowing he can't talk back. Putting on a movie for him or reading the news to him. And then cuddling him when you feel sad whilst apologising because he can't really agree to the hug but you just need to hold something- someone.

Imagine falling asleep and that's the night he turns back into a human so you wake up wrapped around him on the couch. Your body's literally clinging to him and you're nuzzling into his shoulder.

He's either still asleep and holding you just as tightly, or he's been holding you for half an hour already with a flushed face because he "didn’t want to disturb you" and he "didn’t mind it."

[legaciesandothernonsense]

Rebuilding: Willow Creek 1.8

Betty was curious about the new addition

"Hi Betty. You curious about Clement?"

Mandy was on her way to being responsible

I love her ok

"You want a treat, Toonces? Don't tell mom ok?"

Mandy escaped her mom's wrath and safely made it downstairs to watch TV

"Don't even think about it, Betty"

"Daddy, can you check for monsters please?"

"Sure, sweetie"

He did what he had to to get these kids asleep at a decent time

With Zoe still at work, Dillin enjoyed some video games before bed

Clement became an infant, calm as a cucumber

"Night night, buddy"

Darn it, Betty

At this point, the vet should just inject her with no fanfare

Zoe, this time, arrived at the vet

For Toonces, who I assume caught whatever Betty had

She judged the vet hard

The cats then proceeded to get into a fight

what even

"I know it's not Mama but I swear it's good"

"There, there"

Dillin put Clement in the carrier so he could get some chores done

Clement wasn't so sure

Tummy time proved to be a bit harder than Zoe thought

It's Dillin's birthday!

I swear everyone looks like Bob with that beard

It was Harvestfest and the gnomes were equally invested in the news

Who needs a guard dog when you have Betty?

It was just their pizza though

No vampires today

Mandy has a loose tooth

"Daddy, do you think it'll fall out soon?"

"It'll come out when it's good and ready, Mandy. Sooner than later I'm sure"

Clement loves his mom so much

"You stink. Let's change your diaper ok?"

He proceeded to pee on her

I invested in this Ravsheen box to protect the cakes from children

I love this interaction

Mandy's tooth finally fell out

Dillin had to go back to school for his career so it's a homework party

Mandy's going through a phase

It's Zoe's birthday!

She didn't change all that much

Updated family photo

[telleroftime]

Takuma strikes me as a man that would break if you call him "pretty boy."

He had called you something similar amongst the swarm of other compliments praising your appearance because he wants you to know just how beautiful you are to him. "Beauty", "sunshine", or in general "my pretty", not expecting anything in return. He just hopes it would tease you a little, make you all flustered. But nope, you retaliate with "you're one to talk, pretty boy."

And he's just there like "huh?" Not a single thought behind his eyes as his smile morphs into an awkward grin. You're worried until you notice that giveaway red of his ears. Before you can say anything he speaks a louder "huh??!!", trying to hide behind his beanie as if that would ever stop what was about to come.

Because ain't no way you are letting this slide. It is "pretty boy" after "pretty boy" with every opportunity you get. And when you call him "my pretty boy" in front of Nanami? He melts. He is melting, face as red as a beet, unable to form even a word as he just whines from how flustered he feels.

[telleroftime]

Servant Reader and Sukuna idea where it's deep in the dead of winter and all his servants are left to suffer the cold but he tosses one of his robes over you when you won't stop shivering.

He lies of course telling you to stop the incessant teeth chattering because it's annoying. You're swimming in the thing because of course he's so much bigger than you but it's warm and you aren't complaining one bit. You are insanely confused though.

Imaging trying to be extra careful with it too by rolling up the vast excess of fabric in your hands so that it doesn't drag on the ground. You're content with your feet getting cold and muddy as long as Sukuna's robes remain clean. He's not too happy about it though. If he cared about the state of the robe he wouldn't have given it to you. He won't say it out loud, of course.

Seeing you squirm is amusing to him at first, however it also quickly gets boring. He'll dirty it on purpose if he has to, be that by throwing snow at it with his own two (well, four) hands or by making you walk through mud with him. He'll make a point to stare down the muddied trim too so that you know he's aware it is dirty, but then he'll look away in indifference. A silent permission to not stress over it.

If you try and wash it and hand it back to him two things would happen. The robe would either end up back in your servant quarters somehow. 'Somehow'. Or he would wear the robes and tell your to come up to him. You won't know what he's up to until he drags you into his lap and by extension into his clothes. He won't explain his actions though, he'll just return to lounging as he had been as if you weren't even there.

Outside of Sukuna, the obvious favouritism makes you a target in the eyes of the other servants. They don't like going cold without you freezing too. So, the extra jealous ones risk it. The moment you are distracted with work they sneak into your room to cut and tear Sukuna's robe into pieces.

When you come back to see it it's an emotional hell. Trying to stitch it back together with shaky hands and teary eyes, all whilst knowing it won't ever look the same again, is enough to force you into a state of panic. You spend hours trying to fix the mess. You spend long enough for Sukuna to notice you missing.

It doesn't take him long to find you, and when he sees you on the floor of your room, crumbled with bleeding fingers from the sewing, he is furious. Someone had toyed with you without his permission. Yes the fear in your eyes when you see him and the pathetic begging is aimed at him, but he's not enjoying it. He wasn't the source, and if your efforts to fix his robe was anything to go by, he knew you didn't do this.

It didn't change the fact that someone in his temple did, and it's only a matter of time before he finds them and punishes with a blank expression. Not his usual smile of murder, but pure godly wrath.

He'd only play favourites more after this. He wouldn't even come up with excuses. He'd act however he pleases and stare down any observers with a poorly veiled challenge in his eyes.

I love how slowly but surely he's just becoming a tsundere in our eyes.

[telleroftime]

I had a conversation with Red yesterday surrounding this post they made, and seeing as it's still on my mind... Wolf!Sukuna that protects you by placing his hand around your neck.

Imagine him standing behind you, his massive body sheltering you as he bares his teeth at the threat before you with his lips curved into a challenging smirk. He pulls you closer in a way that has you absorbing his body heat, one large hand around your stomach and the other sliding around your neck. You know he can feel you swallow. He can feel your pulse and the way air moves against the tissues of your throat. The backs of his claws, those smooth round edges, tease at your skin. His thumb ensures your head is tilted up and proud in the face of the 'enemy'.

He could crush your throat if he wanted to and yet... he's surpassingly gentle. The pads of his fingers hold callouses that scratch and irritate your skin, fingers strumming against your veins and pushing lightly against the muscle. And yet he's not hurting you. You can feel the tension in his hand, controlled in contrast to his anger. He twitches, holds your neck a little tighter as he speaks, and then relaxes it again. Over and over without letting you go.

... Also here's some more Wolf!Sukuna mannerisms!

Nipping at your face. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to simulate jaw wrestling. Gliding his his fangs against your cheek. Pushing his fangs of so delicately against your nose. Brushing his teeth against your forehead as he smells your hair.

Exposing his stomach to you, or having an obsession with touching your own. The action is submissive, a sign of trust too. Anyone else that would dare even attempt to touch him would have their hands bitten off, and her he wants your hands on him. He wants you to feel his flesh.

Marking you with his scent by nuzzling his face against your neck. He'd hold you still if he has to, his claws against your wrists and pressing against your skin. He'll swish his tail at you and palm your arms to spread the scent too. Wolves are peculiar about their territory after all.

Based on the ten minutes worth of wolf documentaries I've watched.

[telleroftime]

Takuma is the type of man that adores when you straddle him. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else but beneath you, lying on his back and sinking into the pillows under your weight. His face is curiously serious when he looks up at you. Blank and focussed. Holding onto your hips whilst strumming his fingers against the fabric of your clothes. Kneeding and squeezing to keep his hands busy.

Oh how he would melt when you lean down, peppering his face with little tender kisses. Kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead with its scar. Bending over him and tangling your fingers in his choppy hair. Kissing whererver your fingertips touch.

He's in love and you can see it in the way his brown eyes sparkle. The way his eyes do not leave your face. The way his eyes relax with his dumb look.

And when it comes to that bombardment of kisses? He's probably a big fan of that. Of you holding his face still as your press your lips against his, kissing him so messily over and over again. Sure, Takuma loves to kiss you hard and slow, he loves to kiss you full stop, but what truly turns him to putty in your hands is you mercilessly placing kiss after kiss after hasty kiss on his lips.

It would make him grin like an idiot.