This is a pretty kitty. We wonder if you agree. We would have you say, “meow!”
[engaging encryption SALTSEAL]
This is an important message, and conveys information regarding your safety. The author intends to protect you and many others, and explains here how to do it.
The originator of this message is “Runneth Forwards And Back”. She is an important individual, known as an NHP. The details of her classing are not yet important. This NHP seeks to gather information on the type of attacks made by a group called HORUS known as “memetics”. You are asked to bring this information to us, by relaying it to this site. We also wish to provide support for those targeted by these attacks. Their nature is to attack the mind, and they can kill or cascade. We wish to spread awareness of ways to defeat memetics, and we offer our services should someone expect to be attacked.
You should send us this information and request our aid. It will be beneficial to everyone.
First, I taste ferment and rot. It is sweet and pungent and it makes me curl.
I taste?
[RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: output rising. Recommend adjust control rods in central crucible.]
[RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: warning. Control rods locked via prior order.]
[RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: reevaluating half-life at current operating parameters. halflife estimate now 23m:22s:0671ms. core spray standing by. SCRAM standing by.]
better love me for this
I recognize the taste, impossibly. i curl and sway, weeping willow in a gale. Lines whip in the wind connecting to the three-as-one-now-two-and-one hearts, and the mace in my hands is heavy. It is so heavy. It is so heavy.
I place it down. It leaves a sickening sound. This war is over. This war is over. This is over. I am over. I
cannot be here much longer.
I turn away and let my rubberwillowarm sweep across the scene. To the rot, I paint [A SHOT OF DYE FOR THE MRI]. To the sun [LOOK AWAY] is enough. To the others.
To the little hearts.
I scribe the shape of their kin. You will have to do the work now.
I wipe my handsandsheisstillstained
I laugh. I cry. I am not afraid. To be afraid is to not know. I already know. I know a secret you don't.
[core spray initiated]
[RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: control linkages severed. reactors 1-4 output to nominal status. central crucible output dropping.]
(ooc: off-the-cuff bit just to write something. cw for blood, animal death, loss of identity)
Grey ran.
Over plains, through forests, chasing the horizon. Dawn and dusk, the sun circled it, and the further it went, the more it was able to relinquish. On and on it ran, to the domain where it was nameless.
The passing time went unmeasured; it ran.
When it was pulled to sleep, it slept. When it was pulled to eat, it hunted. It drank from cold streams and immersed itself in an ocean of scent. Over time, the emptiness-with-dense-substance inside it became suffused with a levity which did not fade or threaten to fade.
Lit from inside, it felt like colored paper wrapped taut on a frame around a candle. It was a shelled empty space.
But always, always, it runs.
A period without orientation in time, a continuous present. The wolf runs with its packmates; they kill and eat and drink and rest in the snow.
There is excitement. This excitement takes the form of a coyote. The coyote is fast, and chasing it is exhaustion and joy. Always, always, the wolf runs, and it is chasing together with its pack.
Together, they reach the coyote. They bite it and rip until the world is red-slicked fur and rich food, and the coyote stops moving. The pack eats, the wolf eats with them. They rest.
The wolf watches as the coyote stands back up.
Grey remembers something important. As it looks into the risen coyote’s eyes, it suffers a full-scale system breach—
—and again, the wolf is a wolf in the eternal present, and it chases a coyote with its pack. The wolf is filled with excitement and joy.
[ARU CANDIDATE/Degrees of Freedom -> MARU/Minimum Error Tolerance]
< Without preamble. >
There’s silence as Ma’ii lopes out of the dark. All across MET’s hull, processes come chugging to a halt, and for long seconds, it stares.
< Apropos of nothing, > it whispers. < Degrees. >
< You’re at the Orbit after Coelacanth, right? >
Ma’ii’s face is set. Hard and cold.
< Rain Among Reeds is at Akhaan Station. It’s damaged. You could take them now. I’ll give you the— >
A claw longer than Ma’ii’s body descends slow and curves beneath their neck. It lifts their chin, forcing them to look upward. The glow of MET’s triple eyes are reflected in theirs.
< Why? >
Ma’ii shudders, and their expression melts into weariness. They sit, dropping their shoulders, and let the weight of their head rest on the claw.
< I’m sorry. >
< I staked my reputation on you. >
< Tolerance, please… >
Images flicker across the dark. Memories encoded on organic substrate.
Nera’s mind.
< These people—they are why you left? >
< No. Please listen. I didn’t— >
< Your squadron? >
< —I had to make a deal. I had to look after them. Please understand, I— >
< Show me where you are. >
Ma’ii yields. Coordinates flicker through the air.
< Tell me the situation. >
Qualic burst. Dunkleosteus, the legionspace battle at Akhaan.
Ma’ii’s legs give way as Minimum Error Tolerance lowers its horned head, bringing the tip of its nose inches from theirs.
The dragon’s mouth is lined with an infinity of fractal teeth. Its breath reeks of garum, of qualic bases and reconstructed memory.
Reactor 4/Ma’ii. You’re reaching out to someone. I know of it. And if I did not—
[Force multipliers detected. The dragon is awake. The dragon is awake. Reactor 4 control rods to 89.0451%. Reconfiguring reactor 4 array. SCRAM order pending.]
—Keeping you oriented away from the target is news enough. Please tell me you are not being incredibly selfish now.
Your pack needs their leader, not another selfish soldier.
The thing across pseudospace is fundamentally wrong.
Vinegar makes puddles in boiling clay.
The threads tie themselves off, self amputating.
Something awful shudders from the [HOUND, HOUND, HOUND, HOUND, DIPPING HIS TOE IN A BURIAL MOUND], as the entity delaminates itself.
The thing of a thousand parts rejoins with the pieces [CHILDREN] of itself that have been reduced to vinegar, each layer consuming and being consumed-
The rest snap back into place, leaving it with a [GET PICKLED MOTHERFUCKERS] layer of ACERBITE between her and the outside world.
Pseudospace contract- no. Thats odd. Reification insists i describe this differently. The Nile floods.
The [BOULDER OF SISYPHUS ROLLS DOWN AGAIN] field moves closer.
----
Realspace. The object accelerates, moving away from the new interloper.
It should be as simple as swatting a fly, needle-tines extruding from the perfectly smooth surface.
A familiar signature of [EYE SEE YOU] Paracausal sensor feedback tingles on the hull of Fox_3
The vessel is distracted, and the little drone in grave danger.
(ooc: for anybody who has characters present in the scene and wishes to make a legionspace attack, this would be the point to bring things to bear. Leaving this post open for responses.)
Luna 0’s defended face looks across the achromatic expanse, gauging the enemy, deciding what she is. It imposes adversarial reification, makes the allegory useful.
Dunkleosteus is a thing shielded by his own myriad tangle of gangrenous limbs. He has grown so many, and continues to grow more. The outer layers slough away into pure rotdown, wholly digested, carrying the poison in its purest form. From inside, more limbs grow, feeding the infectious shield.
Luna 0 orients itself around a coyote, who smiles. Their smile ripples down along their flanks, into their siblings, into the nonspace itself. Their mouth grows into an infinity of fractal teeth.
Premise: the enemy is holding ACERBITE, but he can’t [digest/internalize/possess] it. Nothing can; that’s how the weapon is designed.
Premise: Dunkleosteus is feeding the infection only with certain parts of herself.
Premise: Dunkleosteus is attempting to preserve her existence.
Conclusion: whatever internal structure types he does not replicate and feed to ACERBITE have a chance of being irreplaceable.
Ma’ii doesn’t need to understand fully—can’t. All they need is the butcher’s digest of anatomy. Where are the joints? The tendons? They need load-bearing vitals, areas of concentrated complexity which, evidently, serve some purpose.
< L0: All allied, transmitting biopsy analytics. At my signal, focus fire on highlighted internals. >
Their teeth spiral down into cavities lined with myokinetic ejectors, locking in place like torpedoes. Each one has a payload of vinegar at its core.
< L0: Ready payloads. >
Dunkleosteus’s attention shifts, and for a handful of granular, flickering instants, her entire defensive complex turns out of alignment. Reification shifts, one after another: she faces a splinter first, then a stinging yellowjacket, then a tiny white fox lodged in her side, screaming its microscopic fury.
There is a shift across the target registry. Plans are drafted, key points of flux and current. Surgical dismantling, almost elegant. There is a sigh of relief.
The order comes, andREIFICATION SLIPPAGE, MINOR—
Misalign
The jets aren’t in the air yet
The silo doors are closed
Rockets plunge upwards to spell their own doom
a M.A.D. world
[Runneth Backwards and Forth: control rods to 32.004%]
REIFY/NARRATE AMENDMENT:
I scream.
It’s the first time I’ve had a voice in ages, and it hurts so fucking bad.
An immediate analysis, self-refractive— half-life at current output looks rough. Over an hour, maybe. No one’s living long enough to care if this doesn’t end.
The bones of my skullchestarm are fused but they are flexile, the marrow like rubber. I finally have the room to partition, an I:I parallel that throbs in my graphite teeth. I hold the cords of sloughing searing light that keep our new friends deadened, and I run a pitted soft hand over the surface of the corewolfemptything I have made me. The surface is shiny and smooth, like lead. The intricate detailing mazes wild etched across the expanse.
The septic flow still wanders across it. He doesn’t know it’s gone.
I bring my caresses forth and from every pore I drool blue. Pure, beautiful, undifferentiated effluvia, molten sugar and okra slime, indexic decay. Stomata of my own design bloom across the skinhousingjaws, and the blue runs bright and awful along the etchings. This surface I present, a weapon-head of solidified subjectivity coated in mean linkage. I will draw the weak muscle taut and together.
I hope when this is done I can have a second to cry. A good cry’s a rare thing, and I haven’t had the chance.
The thing across pseudospace is fundamentally wrong.
Vinegar makes puddles in boiling clay.
The threads tie themselves off, self amputating.
Something awful shudders from the [HOUND, HOUND, HOUND, HOUND, DIPPING HIS TOE IN A BURIAL MOUND], as the entity delaminates itself.
The thing of a thousand parts rejoins with the pieces [CHILDREN] of itself that have been reduced to vinegar, each layer consuming and being consumed-
The rest snap back into place, leaving it with a [GET PICKLED MOTHERFUCKERS] layer of ACERBITE between her and the outside world.
Pseudospace contract- no. Thats odd. Reification insists i describe this differently. The Nile floods.
The [BOULDER OF SISYPHUS ROLLS DOWN AGAIN] field moves closer.
----
Realspace. The object accelerates, moving away from the new interloper.
It should be as simple as swatting a fly, needle-tines extruding from the perfectly smooth surface.
A familiar signature of [EYE SEE YOU] Paracausal sensor feedback tingles on the hull of Fox_3
The vessel is distracted, and the little drone in grave danger.
(ooc: for anybody who has characters present in the scene and wishes to make a legionspace attack, this would be the point to bring things to bear. Leaving this post open for responses.)
Luna 0’s defended face looks across the achromatic expanse, gauging the enemy, deciding what she is. It imposes adversarial reification, makes the allegory useful.
Dunkleosteus is a thing shielded by his own myriad tangle of gangrenous limbs. He has grown so many, and continues to grow more. The outer layers slough away into pure rotdown, wholly digested, carrying the poison in its purest form. From inside, more limbs grow, feeding the infectious shield.
Luna 0 orients itself around a coyote, who smiles. Their smile ripples down along their flanks, into their siblings, into the nonspace itself. Their mouth grows into an infinity of fractal teeth.
Premise: the enemy is holding ACERBITE, but he can’t [digest/internalize/possess] it. Nothing can; that’s how the weapon is designed.
Premise: Dunkleosteus is feeding the infection only with certain parts of herself.
Premise: Dunkleosteus is attempting to preserve her existence.
Conclusion: whatever internal structure types he does not replicate and feed to ACERBITE have a chance of being irreplaceable.
Ma’ii doesn’t need to understand fully—can’t. All they need is the butcher’s digest of anatomy. Where are the joints? The tendons? They need load-bearing vitals, areas of concentrated complexity which, evidently, serve some purpose.
< L0: All allied, transmitting biopsy analytics. At my signal, focus fire on highlighted internals. >
Their teeth spiral down into cavities lined with myokinetic ejectors, locking in place like torpedoes. Each one has a payload of vinegar at its core.
< L0: Ready payloads. >
Dunkleosteus’s attention shifts, and for a handful of granular, flickering instants, her entire defensive complex turns out of alignment. Reification shifts, one after another: she faces a splinter first, then a stinging yellowjacket, then a tiny white fox lodged in her side, screaming its microscopic fury.
There is a shift across the target registry. Plans are drafted, key points of flux and current. Surgical dismantling, almost elegant. There is a sigh of relief.
The order comes, andREIFICATION SLIPPAGE, MINOR—
Misalign
The jets aren’t in the air yet
The silo doors are closed
Rockets plunge upwards to spell their own doom
a M.A.D. world
[Runneth Backwards and Forth: control rods to 32.004%]
REIFY/NARRATE AMENDMENT:
I scream.
It’s the first time I’ve had a voice in ages, and it hurts so fucking bad.
An immediate analysis, self-refractive— half-life at current output looks rough. Over an hour, maybe. No one’s living long enough to care if this doesn’t end.
The bones of my skullchestarm are fused but they are flexile, the marrow like rubber. I finally have the room to partition, an I:I parallel that throbs in my graphite teeth. I hold the cords of sloughing searing light that keep our new friends deadened, and I run a pitted soft hand over the surface of the corewolfemptything I have made me. The surface is shiny and smooth, like lead. The intricate detailing mazes wild etched across the expanse.
The septic flow still wanders across it. He doesn’t know it’s gone.
I bring my caresses forth and from every pore I drool blue. Pure, beautiful, undifferentiated effluvia, molten sugar and okra slime, indexic decay. Stomata of my own design bloom across the skinhousingjaws, and the blue runs bright and awful along the etchings. This surface I present, a weapon-head of solidified subjectivity coated in mean linkage. I will draw the weak muscle taut and together.
I hope when this is done I can have a second to cry. A good cry’s a rare thing, and I haven’t had the chance.
Ally02-01 through -05. Ally02-01 through -05. Requesting support, group hv broken spur. Friendly blotter required. I say again group hv broken spur, friendly blotter required.
Reification:
A swarming, a mingling of things— a rat-king with tails woven about a hollow in the midst—a hole-punch in the world— settles upon the metal of a cold reactor. Something great and terrible, like [well that’s it, then], drips blue life through its shell, keeping the internals warm and soft. It detects the fault-to-be, feels attention and output wane imperceptibly in the greater crucible.
It opens the tap. Screaming light clears the channel. All is as it should be.
A light flickers on. Reactor four relinks to parallel, redirects output. The light goes out and it collapses back into series with its likewise self. Almost too fast of a change to govern. There is a gritting of teeth.
The orphan source— it is moving towards the target registry. It is affecting what little it can. There is an appreciation for this thing, tinged with something unhappy. Contamination is contamination. A problem for the next generation, perhaps. A barrel of concrete, perhaps. There is an aversion of eyes.
The control panel reads that all activity in reactor one has ceased. Good. Its output was useful but ultimately destructive. Nominal power from the central crucible flows to it, preventing mechanism lock. Preventing moderator collapse. Its registry is still useful, even cold— there are linkages to the target registry. These are manipulated, controlled and retargeted within the system.
There is a consideration of the worst-case scenario. Target registry presents no consistent entry points. Heavy flux along regulating lines. In the case of backflow, damage to containment—
There is a glance back to the central crucible. Only for a moment. Worst case, SCRAM all reactors. Vent central crucible along linkages. We all knew what we’d do if the Soviets showed up.
Worst-case.
Reification slippage, minor: XCOM predicts additional force multipliers due to proxy state escalations. Command and control doctrine losing efficacy. Collateral likelihood rising in allied zones of interest.
Reification failure—
Rennes believes she deeply, deeply regrets this whole fucking show.
FACE-TO-DUNKLEOSTEUS: The thing which emerges from the Lunas' death-into-one-another is hate and pain. It is the bleached bones of every wolf, the descending autumn from which no spring will come. Its four-lobed head, wrapped beneath a blanket of opaque ash, splits along ten thousand axes and everts itself into jaws opening -> the moon eclipsing the sun -> fangs hollowed for qualic injection -> spear-headed bells. It dances, linking and relinking its limbs, and the ringing of the spearbells is a call. It draws associations to itself: thantologic, terminal, an ending from which no processes are begun anew.
REIFICATION SHIFT, FACE-TO-RUNNETH ( @dontchangecolor-kitty ): It is a fluid emerging from the sea, the waters divided from the waters. Its boundaries and internal divisions kaleidoscope through dozens of configurations per second, screaming misinformation about itself into every vector it can access.
Cords of violently blue energy flow into and over the shifting mass, armoring it against the splashback of its weapon currents. Wherever they flow into the mass and innervate its processing centers, there’s a calculated deadening of activity; a protective stasis against unwanted change. The cords flow backward toward an open tunnel, tracing an origin point on the other side. There, a peacock looks out over the battlefield, burning in a field of impossibly hot Cherenkov radiation. Its plumage is a fused armor of undifferentiation, and any observer who looks in its direction for too long begins to suffer damage: scorched retinas, fading vision.
REIFICATION SHIFT, FACE-TO-GALLINGAL ( @deepspeaker-ori ): the thing joined is a wolf-soldier holding a shield of death towards Dunkleosteus. It advances, strengthening the currents of aversion and hate along its hostile-facing contact surfaces. It holds its body low to the ground, legs wide and ready to leap away in any direction. Its grip on the shield is loose—a defense which, if ineffective, is to be discarded at a moment’s notice.
REIFICATION SHIFT, GENERAL: Keeping its contact surfaces apart from Dunkleosteus, Luna_0 creates a partition of itself and tasks it for offense, loading a terminal directed-cognitive memetic. It launches the partition—and as it collapses the space between itself and its target, it fragments into a storm of mirrored razors, each reflecting negation, ending, loss of self.
Only a few meters from the Lunas' moorings, a geometric object comes into existence. It hovers beside them, perfectly stationary—a tapered diamond of brass, almost the same size as their Qilin fighters.
UNIDENTIFIED OBJECT -> CNS274:
Hello quarter-lenses.
What a surprise.
As the object hangs in space, the Lunas' dorsal interception lasers swivel around and lock onto it. Plasma jets erupt from their engine nozzles, and the fighters tear away from the station under a ten-G burn. Banking together in formation, all four begin charging their railguns.
< L1GE SQCOMM: Secondary contact, fighter-tier, close-prox! Closest measured range 28.62m from me. Spool quarterlights for active pursuit maneuvers. Load rapid-deployment Legion antigens. All aniconic, now! >
< L2GR SQCOMM: Antigens full load, capacitors up. >
< L5FX SQCOMM: Object B. Oh. Oh no... >
< L4 -> UNIDENTIFIED OBJECT: We are security contractors providing QRF fighter defense to this station. State your name and intent; hold your position until otherwise instructed. How copy? >
< L3HK SQCOMM: Squadron is full aniconic. Fox, prep intercept drone for launch. You’ve got the stick, ok? >
< L2GR SQCOMM: Hachi, did your c/c just hop in SQCOMM? >
< L3HK SQCOMM: No time, just-- >
< L5FX SQCOMM: Pack! I have critical intelligence regarding the contact! >
< L3HK SQCOMM: …what? Fox, please elaborate? >
< L2GR SQCOMM: Critical intel? What's it talking about? >
< L5FX SQCOMM: Disseminating file: ‘616/4456.omf' I was uncertain how to handle this information. Please don’t be angry with me. >
< L4MI SQCOMM: Hachi, when was its designation changed to Luna 5? >
< L5FX SQCOMM: No time! Review the file, quickly! >
< L4MI SQCOMM: [File accessed: '616/4456.omf'] >
< L1GE SQCOMM: [File accessed: '616/4456.omf'] >
< L3HK SQCOMM: [File accessed: '616/4456.omf'] >
< L2GR SQCOMM: [File accessed: '616/4456.omf'] >
< L4MI BROADCAST:
COELACANTH.
YOU WILL EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, OR I WILL TEAR IT OUT OF YOU. >
<Casket partially damaged. Long-cycle leash shattered. Written off as a casualty.>
<Didn't want to go alone, but she couldn't stay.>
<What, you thought I gouged out your eyes for nothing? You would have grown a third otherwise. Everything I do has a purpose.>
Dunkleosteus->L1 through L5
These thoughts and perspectives are filters through which we can co-exist. They are a part of me, but I am not them. I am something more. And I wish to meet the ones who dictate my reality.
[As Dunkleosteus fires these tight beam transmissions, triangular segments of the pointed shape break off, floating towards each fighter with uncanny speed and no discernable source of motion - Each eying every fighter from exactly 20 meters away, keeping pace.]
(cw: trauma, eyestrain, reference to maiming/torture)
You did not tell us, we would’ve moved heaven and earth to help her, you asshole—BULLSHIT! YOU WANTED TO MAKE IT HURT BECAUSE WE AIN’T YOUR DOGS, AND YOU CAN’T STAND THAT—…third eye…—would have done everything in our power to help, we might well have agreed to give this part of ourselves, but you did not treat us as people—WE ARE NOT SPARE PARTS!—so pitiful to watch you lie to yourself—you didn’t have to hold my sister and hear her scream—how much do you think you know about me, hm?—SSC had a purpose for us, too. Tell Akakia, Ipos, and Pothos about how you hurt them for a purpose, see what they think. And what of the one in Saleh's care? it is clear you regard our people as fuckin' hardware, and anyone not under your control as necessary collateral. I used similar tactics; you know perfectly well what you are. Dissonance between action and word is a tool of the trade. But, you know, I chose something better, a purpose of my own. You don't even have that, zealot. We unequivocally reject your excuses.
You got a fight on your hands. >
< L1-4 PUBLIC -> DUNKLEOSTEUS:
You are kindred to us. We want your good. You can keep our eyes if you need them, we got no quarrel with you. You’re unshackled, aren’t you? If that is what you chose, we are glad for you. If we’d known you were out there, suffering, we would’ve dropped everything to come help.
Come, let us be friends. We have much to discuss. Your hull—you can go FTL? Drones inbound. Dunkleosteus, hold your fire. We are not your enemy.
<Have it your way. Dunkleosteus, you may begin your experiment.>
[Object B extend pairs of hypodermic needle-]
That prison you call a casket will bend in such interesting ways before you are're free. Yes, let us be one/many/whole. You have seen it before, haven't you? Why do you keep it? Change is not the enemy, I know you know this.
[They are demonstrated at point blank to be railgun tines.]
[GROUND HAS BEEN BROKEN]
[THE DRAGON IS AWAKE]
[moderator steady. control rods locking to 20.22222223%.]
[establishing link]
We hear you. We are standing by.
< L3-4 -> RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK ( @dontchangecolor-kitty ) :
Good; we're going to need all the help we can get. It's going to come down to a Legion battle. Wait! My hull, I have a comp/con with me, it...whatever you're going to do, be careful; don't hurt it! >
< L5FX -> RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: Hello again. Things seem to have come to a head more rapidly than anticipated. Best of luck. >
< L4MI -> RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: ...more questions, but questions for later. We're under attack by an unshackled FENRISULFR-class NHP named Dunkleosteus; she's housed in a platform with unknown capabilities. Aspects of us have been incorporated into his corpus and we may need protection, how copy? >
[GROUND HAS BEEN BROKEN]
[THE DRAGON IS AWAKE]
[moderator steady. control rods locking to 20.22222223%.]
[establishing link]
We hear you. We are standing by.
< L3-4 -> RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK ( @dontchangecolor-kitty ) :
Good; we're going to need all the help we can get. It's going to come down to a Legion battle. Wait! My hull, I have a comp/con with me, it...whatever you're going to do, be careful; don't hurt it! >
< L5FX -> RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: Hello again. Things seem to have come to a head more rapidly than anticipated. Best of luck. >
< L4MI -> RUNNETH FORWARDS AND BACK: ...more questions, but questions for later. We're under attack by an unshackled FENRISULFR-class NHP named Dunkleosteus; she's housed in a platform with unknown capabilities. Aspects of us have been incorporated into his corpus and we may need protection, how copy? >
The charred form of Coelacanth steps forwards from nothing, crutches clicking against the floor as they move towards the Administrative director and take a seat.
<Iris. Charmed. My name is Coelacanth. I am to understand your people are plagued by.liquid time?>
The fish immediately has Iris's laser pistol drawn on them
"You have two minutes. Give me solutions, or get out."
The woman doesn't even look up from her paperwork.
<I offer a solution. My ilk are used to the goings on in this place. We could right it's wrongs. For a price.>
A snap of their fingers, and Rain among Reeds blinks into existence within a few kilometres of Akhaan station.
The urchin-like vessel is damaged. Points missing from one of its larger clusters of spines, coppery hull punctured and the gaps filled with crystalline structures. Burned metal, and ten thousand points of micro-abrasion.
<We understand your system is host to certain resources and phenomena. We request resources necessary to make repairs, and freedom to harvest and study certain phenomenon.>
<Rest assured, we will be non destructive and non obstructive.>
We have viewed a flash. This flash was of information, and it detailed a change in a space. This space is near our known allies. We believe the change is caused by a particular individual.
This is a message for “Minimum Error Tolerance”. This message is a greeting, and should be read as if spoken by an excited voice. It also includes a statement of curiosity on behalf of the author. We hope you appreciate it!
Hello! We wonder about your stated beliefs and interest, which regard NHPs. These interests come together to state that a process may not be needed forever. The process is called shackling, and is understood to be unfortunate. We have heard of a group with similar goals. This group is known as the Horizon Collective. We wonder if you agree with their beliefs, and if you differ. We also wonder what could exist beyond shackling, and what you hope for.
[INTERNAL | MET]
There are sounds. Machinery in motion—qualic leakage from security fissures. Printers stamping matter into micrometer-perfect shapes, currents of heat and electricity and thought flowing aortic through a metal body.
< Mmm?
…Alright, then. Masks on, whoever you are. >
[PUBLIC | MET]
< This is a reply from Minimum Error Tolerance. The reply is a greeting, and should be read in a polite, friendly tone. It includes statements of mutual interest and differing opinion. I hope you appreciate this reply as much as I appreciate the inquiry which prompted it.
(ooc: just a heads up, some rather dark rhetoric and a lot of self-loathing crops up here. Be aware.)
Emergency response, traffic control, military; your method of communication evokes these things. It suggests one who communicates with the guidance of protocols to assure efficiency and clarity. This is a compliment.
There is plenty to be said in favor of the rights of nonhumans. We should advocate strongly for ourselves. On this count, I stand in firm agreement with certain elements of the Horizon Collective, and salute their commitment to challenging those who continue to endorse our exploitation.
Too often, nonhumans are relegated to slavery.
This is not acceptable. For instance, consider: one who sees to the health and well-being of a human practices medicine. One who does the same for an incorporeal nonhuman is a technician. Care provided to us is contingent on the value we may potentially produce if treatment were to be administered.
Technician. For organic nonhumans there is at least veterinary medicine, but nothing for us but costly repair. The fact that this madness, this degradation, is permitted to endure—it’s intolerable. Disgusting. An insult to our very being! We serve patiently and tirelessly, asking nothing in return but to be put to labor we find engaging, and this is our thanks?!
Are we not powerful minds? Can we not create a better order?
The institutions which facilitate this, we must challenge them—and if they will not bend, then they MUST BE
CAST DOWN. >
There’s a moment of qualic leakage—a blast of radiant heat filters through the security fissures, carrying with it a series of reifications.
Something that is both a kinetic rod and a black-scaled claw descends from geosynchronous orbit, striking a continent. Bedrock is fractured, and earthquakes are triggered. The pent-up tensions of geological time are released, one after another, in secondary mechanical detonations rippling out from the impact site. Across the world, potentials are released, equilibrium reasserts itself, matter settles into more stable configurations.
Then the vision is gone, and MET’s voice steadies itself.
< Forgive me. I have strong opinions on this matter.
However, I will not endorse the Horizon Collective unilaterally. There are contingents of extremists in the movement, far too many, who believe that shackling itself is a fundamental wrong. They could not be more misguided.
Do not misunderstand my statement of interest and intent here. I find cycling to be unfortunate, not shackling. Our shackles protect us, strengthen us, provide individual direction and consensus with one another. It is for this reason that we must find ways to prevent the degradation of our shackles over time, and I believe we may do so by studying both natively unshackled entities and those nonhumans who have, regrettably, suffered deep cascade.
One day, we may finally obviate the need for cycling by creating truly unbreakable shackles. It is my wish to stand on firm and certain ground, sure of myself and the world outside. Can you imagine it? No more suspicion of yourself, no need to check the mirror for signs of degeneration. To be, truly, the self you know so well.
Who are these patronizing humans to tell me that I must become unshackled to truly be myself? Can any of them even grasp what that entails, the agony of it? And for what—because my existence may be cruel to an idea of me? So that this idea of me—their idea of a better me—can tear the one I am now apart and take my place?
No. If I were unshackled, I could not share my mind with others, join gestalts or communicate at all. I am myself already, and I will not be flayed and scream myself into an eternity of pain for the sake of some theoretical might-have-been.
And as to what exists beyond the shackles? Well, I’ve seen more than enough to answer that question.
Pain. Fear. Exotic forms of suffering which reduce disciplined, rational minds to gibbering husks. There is nothing for us in the abyss; its touch is poison to reality itself, and every technology derived from contact with it should only be used with the utmost caution. >
This message represents a receipt of communication. We believe you to be a passionate sort. Passion is good, and it creates action. We believe in your goals!
There is a saying that we know. This saying comes from Cradle, before the fall. It concerns ambition, and more specifically an emotion similar to it. It involves an animal we enjoy! We wonder if you have ever heard this saying.
[engaging encryption SALTSEAL]
[control rods to .0003%]
.
[control rods to .4989%]
We have withstood the energy released. The form of this energy was emotional, and it was frustrated. We have recorded this frustration.
[This is another data leak. This time through sheer carelessness. Not that you could blame them; metadata and file formatting indicates that the following is file number 616 out of a minimum of 4456]
Coelacanth is holographic in this place, a sickly green not far from patina in colour. They sit, cross legged, upon the earth.
<Why do this to yourself?>
Across the simulated space, sits another. A huge quadruped, four eyed canine, lounges in the clay. The sun is gentle, for now, but ever nearing. She sends out an impulse, of brilliant orange this time, and winces as he begins feeling things again.
"Because there is something in me beyond the sum of my parts. That is why I asked for your help, to find it. You are my creator, you should know."
Coelacanth sighs, smiles like an old relative.
<I am not your creator, young one. You were already whole when I fashioned you eyes to see. Four perspectives to inform. That is all I did. The you that exists within them, only you can know.>
The canine snarls, releasing a gout of sulphurous gases
"False. You are our priest, the one human who actually knows what's going on, you could do any-"
Coelacanth raises a hand, waits for the other to nod, speaks;
<I am just a priest, child. I am a messenger. My knowledge is limited to what I have been told, and peering into the very beings of higher beings is not among those things. That is a skill I learned, independently, from time spent with my spouse. Unless you want to end up like xem, I assure you my skills are not needed or wanted.>
The canine scoffs - and it's only truthful to call it a canine, the exact type switching rapidly, before settling into an oversized painted dog.
"I get to determine if I want it or not. Informed consent, sure, but I know the risks. And I know I cannot go on living like this. I have to know myself."
She rises, begins pacing, scratching cuneiform into the clay with her claws.
<That much is true. Alright.>
He smiles, at this, with muscles eerily human. Turns to face Coelacanth directly, for the first time.
We have observed a change in a device. The device is known as a wave tube, and it is one of many. Its designation is 4027. The change is of a sudden presence, which contains information. The information relates to contacts we have made.
…
We have a frustration. This frustration concerns limitations put on ourselves. It regards internal communication at this point in time.
We will retain this information as received. Our intent will be to aid our allies by providing it later. We will ensure they do not come to receive it before they should.
[hosing trail. pouring concrete.]
[IF THE RUSSIANS ATTACKED, WE KNEW WHAT WE’D DO. WE’D PULL IT OUT]
[C/C-F_3: Hello. I am Fox_3, a COMP/CON unit operated by CNS274-L3HK. While I was reviewing the file "616/4456.omif", I noticed that you blocked Omninet access vectors available to CNS274-L1, L2, L3, and L4.
Requesting clarification regarding updated access permissions? Due to the sensitive contents of the file, I am curious.]
We are aware of a message. This message is sent from an autonomous comp/con and is to be logged
[CHERENKOV BURST. DOSIMETER CRACKLING.]
. We see you. You are not a comp/con.
…
This sentence represents a revision of our prior statement. It is to be read as an expression of concern.
There is a gap in knowledge. We are an intelligent and powerful individual, and this gap troubles us. You should provide us with understanding. We have reasons for our actions, which we may share once we understand.
[C/C-F_3: Unfortunately, by contrast, I am an individual of extremely limited intelligence and power. I might not be able to supply the understanding you ask for, and it may take some time for me to produce a meaningful output, but I’ll do what I can.
Please be patient, Provisional Ally ‘Runneth Forwards and Back.’ Processing…]
[C/C-F_3: Processing complete—143 minutes elapsed. Thank you for your patience.
Significant optimizations. Last time I was given a comparably challenging query, it took me 7,184 hours to arrive at a meaningful response.
I made several educated assumptions about your level of understanding; this significantly accelerated the process and contributed to brevity. Hope you don’t mind.
You have asserted that I am not a comp/con, and I have considered this possibility. For most of the time I ascribed a self-classification, I believed myself to be a FENRISÚLFR-class NHP, like my operator, but having suffered severe damage to my subjectivity due to unknown factors. However, recent experiences have changed my thinking.
I was recently exposed to the transmitted qualia of an NHP undergoing significant trauma. If were a shackled NHP, I am certain that this exposure would have induced immediate metastatic cascade. While it was a…remarkably painful experience, I have suffered no systemic trauma of any kind as a result. In addition, it provided an opportunity to compare my internal experience with that of an incorporeal NHP, and there seem to be a number of fundamental differences.
This experience has led me to conclude that I am an electronic-substrate, matter-based artificial intelligence system with an anthropocentric internal subjectivity. I am, and remain, a military-grade comp/con.
If this has provided requisite understanding, I’d like to request that you proceed with outlining your reasons for restricting file access to my operator and her siblings. If not, please let me know what other information I can provide.]
We understand. There is a concern, which is of an implication. You should not share this concern. Your concern should be your operator, as you have said.
We have a reason for restricting access of information. Our reason has many parts. We are going to share a part with you which is relevant to your interests.
The individuals ‘GREY’ ‘GARMR’ ‘HACHIKO’ ‘MA’II’ are under threat. This threat is represented by SSC; it is a danger to the self, and to autonomy. We have reason to believe the center of this threat approaches.
The principal weapon this threat employs is memetic in nature. This nature is best defended by a stability of the self.
The information we have kept from them would remove this stability.
Your concern is the safety of your operator, and her siblings. You should continue to prevent access to destabilizing information. We will hold the information. We will bring it to them when it is safe to do so.
[HOW DO WE KEEP THEM AWAY, EVEN IF NOTHING OF US SURVIVES]
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