Monterey Bay Aquarium
tannertan36
if i look back, i am lost
blake kathryn
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
YOU ARE THE REASON
#extradirty
No title available
macklin celebrini has autism
trying on a metaphor
shark vs the universe
occasionally subtle
🪼
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
d e v o n
roma★
DEAR READER
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
dirt enthusiast
seen from Singapore
seen from India
seen from Italy
seen from Poland
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from South Africa
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@hekatonite
hadal, the derelict. a fandomless sci-fi oc, written by tau (28 - it / he). selective & mutuals only. read rules before following.
themes of. a ship without a crew. rediscovering one's purpose. the ghost in the machine. emotions conflicting with programming. wounds that never truly heal. morality emulated by a construct of war.
𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗱
What does it mean to get old as a inorganic being?
"It's not so different from the aging process of an organic being, really. Everything falls apart, in time. Flesh and metal both age; they weaken, they cease to function. The same happens to our minds."
"Eventually, my neural spires will degrade to the point where I lose the ability to generate independent thought. I will become a non-sapient machine, endlessly cycling the same old code. After that, it's just a matter of time before I experience true death."
"I find the inevitable daunting, but... peaceful, still. Nothing should last forever. There must be a balance."
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"I, ah—thank you? But I will not be doing any of that. Nor do I know what a Christmas is."
The quiet of the shuttle is somewhat disconcerting; the bustling hive of strangers at the station had been a comforting backdrop, the deafening muddle of footsteps and conversations he couldn't even begin to parse reminding him of days long distant.
Nitelight's equilibrium is better suited to balancing on precarious edges rather than adjusting to unsteady ground, and he finds himself having to somewhat lean against one of the shuttle's walls as a precaution.
Quietly, he turns his gaze upon Hadal (Hadal's drones?). He tries his best not to look outside.
"I would not put you into danger, Hadal," He begins, the corners of his eyes creasing. It's a sympathetic expression, perhaps made a little less obvious by his faceplate.
A low hum permeates the back of his words; the gentle buzzing produced alongside anything that leaves his vocoder. Soft; an instinctive lulling.
"I am running, but not from danger."
Nitelight pauses.
"Perhaps running is not a good word for it. I'm... wandering. Drifting away, rather than running."
His mismatched gaze falls away to the floor. He understands the dreadnought's worry – he's felt it himself, buried deep within encoded instinct that he wouldn't even know how to begin removing. He's not sure he'd want to remove it, and he can't be sure that that itself isn't a precaution against tampering with anything. Paradoxical sympathy.
Nitelight lifts his gaze back up to the drones.
"I won't take advantage of anything. I promise. If it came down to it, I would help you just as much as you would me."
------☼------
HKE-4 tilts its head in its own look of sympathy; the other drone busies itself with overseeing the docking procedure as the dreadnought fully envelopes them in its shadow. They cruise beneath one massive rudder as it ponderously moves, like the fin of a migratory whale cutting through the cosmic ocean. The signal lights dotted along its leading edge glitter like artificial stars against a hull that gleams a deep midnight blue.
"Thank you for your honesty, Nitelight. It is appreciated, and... I apologize for putting you on the spot like that." He glances to where Nitelight is leaning, antennae flicked back in a slight frown. He hadn't previously considered that his new passenger may be averse to, or at the very least inexperienced with, being in space. "Once we're aboard, I can search my inventory for some mag-boots more your size. They may help make adjusting to your new environment easier."
Maker only knows how many relics he has laying around, stashed away in dusty vaults and almost entirely forgotten except when the right circumstances jolt his memory. It's an uncomfortable reminder of how old he is; he doubts he suffered such terrible latency recalling where he stored specific items during his youth. (Well. No use crying over spilled hydrazine, he supposes.)
The lights in the hangar brighten as the shuttle swings in to dock, spinning slowly down into one of the clamps like a bird returning to roost. The dreadnought hums with energy around them; a background pattern echoing, like the distant heartbeat of a great, slumbering creature. It is undeniably alive. The weight of a thousand unseen eyes settle on Nitelight as the shuttle's hatch opens, exposing him to the full perception of the Hekatonite intelligence.
"If you'll follow me, I'll bring you to your quarters." HKE-4 beckons patiently from the ramp; doubtless Nitelight will require a moment or two to acclimate to the dreadnought's simulated gravity. HKE-7 disembarks ahead of them, crossing the hangar with an unhurried stride as it follows a predetermined route back to its recharge station. "If you're not satisfied with their placement, I can move them elsewhere. Perhaps you'd like a viewport?"
Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022)
A distress signal can be easily picked up within the waves upon waves that ripple and find solace in your shell.
The signal is continuous and insistent. Like the incessant beep of a heart monitor, like an alarm that won’t shut off— annoyingly pestering you to do something about it. Once you have encrypted its message, allow it to play within your feed, this is the message you will find:
“—is Hot Rod,” The figure speaking seems small, in relation to his ship. There is something leaking from his optics, black blotches all over him, and he seems frantic. “We require aid. Acroplex—“ He coughs, rubs the palm of his hand against one optic, leaving behind a black blotch from what you can now only assume is grime. “My ship and I require aid. She’s hurt bad, but, hm— we’ve exhausted the possible options. And I can’t leave. Won’t, without knowing what’s wrong.”
The figure— Hot Rod— chokes on his words. “She needs help, and I’m all outta tools. Please.” Something makes a loud bang behind him, which causes the video message to flicker and eventually fade as he runs out of view. When you look outside, to find the source of this message, you will find a beaten down ship— smoking, with an engine clearly on fire. It staggers in its attempt to stay mobile and not join the strong orbit of the nearby planet.
The distress signal strikes as an unexpected wake-up call; jolting Hadal out of his peaceful interstellar slumber to the wailing of alarms so rarely triggered. He silences them almost reflexively, and spares a second to check in on Nitelight (still in recharge in his quarters, undisturbed, thankfully) before sharpening his focus on the encrypted data.
Another Cybertronian? The dreadnought wavers, a healthy sense of caution flickering along his neural spires. His immediate assumption is that it's some form of trap, designed to lure charitable souls into an ambush; an assumption soon disproven, as a radar sweep of the entire system reveals there is nothing but the ailing vessel and the nearby planet. Perhaps the source of the distress signal might have had friends there, if its atmosphere was not corrosive to living metal; he knows that Cybertronians actively avoid that sort of hazardous environment.
He could just leave them to their fate. —as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he recoils in disgust. No; so long as he is capable, it is his duty to assist those cast adrift on the star-lanes. He reluctantly wakes Nitelight with a brief explanation of the situation at hand, then withdraws his attentions to the bridge in preparation of what will doubtlessly be a difficult rescue. The Acroplex is ensnared by the gravity well of the nearby planet; a trajectory that's simple enough to intercept, though the maneuver will require him to burn a surplus of fuel.
"Do not be afraid." His voice breaks through on the Acroplex's comms, struggling against the static. The glare from the dreadnought's searchlight is blinding, rendering his silhouette a featureless shadow against the stars as it looms over the Cybertronian vessel. "I am Hadal; I am here to assist you and your crew however I can, Acroplex. Please remain calm while I bring you aboard."
He moves into position, checking his speed against that of the incoming Acroplex as she barrels towards his open hangar. The docking clamps catch her before she slams into the hull, though it's a close call; the shriek of metal scraping against metal and snap of a distressed socket makes him wince inwardly—but it's a small price to pay for the lives of the Acroplex and her crew.
The hangar door rumbles shut as the captured vessel is lowered to the floor, the docking clamps maintaining a supportive cradle around her fuselage. A pair of drones arrive to put out the flames, splitting to methodically cover the Acroplex from both sides. "Crew of the Acroplex, you may disembark," Hadal instructs through the tannoy. "You are safe now. Please display your identification to the nearest HKE drone and await further contact."
Which of your ship's armaments is your favorite to use?
"None of them." It's said bitterly; a feeling of unease courses through his circuits, settling in the AI's core like a lump of heavy metal. "I retired from active duty a very long time ago; I prefer to avoid engaging in a confrontation when I can. I would rather flee."
He does not consider himself a pacifist; in many situations, violence is the only viable option. That does not mean that he must enjoy it (or so he tries to convince himself).
"It is not my ship," he mutters, more to himself than the curious stranger. The distinction doubtless feels like a minor detail to them, but it always bothers him. "I am the ship."
What does it feel like if a drone dies while you are in it?
"A minor inconvenience." HKE-11 idles at its station, its attention flitting between the question and its workload. "I feel the last few moments of its unit data, echoing into infinity—uncomfortable, but not distracting. It takes less than a nanosecond to close the loop."
Hadal hesitates before continuing, uncertain of how much he is expected to divulge. "Perhaps you were expecting a more dramatic answer," he says. "Perhaps it might have been, were I less experienced. I know better than to get attached to my drones. It does not hurt me when they are destroyed."
this is the closest example i can find to what hadal's voice sounds like (tho it's still not perfect!)
his vocal processor has remained unchanged since his creation, so he still has the default voice for a hekatonite military AI—he's also old, so there's a lot of audio artifacting due to his vocal processor degrading over time; static chirps, background buzzing and skipping etc. these worsen when he's angry / upset.
adding on to how aged hadal feels aesthetically—his interior has that "old computer" vibe mixed with industrial robotics. clunky mechanical keypads, monitors inset in thick casings. all matte blacks and grays and silvery-blues. no fancy touchscreens or holo-projections etc; they just aren't durable or reliable enough for a military vessel. he was built to last, inside and out.
edit: cassette futurism is the name of the aesthetic i'm referencing! bless arc-77 for helping me remember.
#hekatonite; a fandomless sci-fi OC. 18+. selective. carrd. read my rules before following!
hello! i'm tau (28, it / he) and this is hadal—my dear, sad old man who also happens to be a giant machine of war. give this a like / reblog if you're interested in interacting. crossovers and the like welcome!
this is the closest example i can find to what hadal's voice sounds like (tho it's still not perfect!)
his vocal processor has remained unchanged since his creation, so he still has the default voice for a hekatonite military AI—he's also old, so there's a lot of audio artifacting due to his vocal processor degrading over time; static chirps, background buzzing and skipping etc. these worsen when he's angry / upset.
𖥻 ⎁ ⭑ identification : @hekatonite ✦ i'll get the shuttle ready. prompt.
“ you're a star, hadal. ” and she means it so genuinely - a nod of appreciation thrown at one of the hke, three of twelve, nothing short of appreciative for their help and overture into whatever the galaxy may hold for them. it's a strange thing to think about, a system beyond her system ... while the existence of the frontier was the furthest thing from a secret after the interstellar migration of what was left of the militia, it was equally as uncommon to hear anything new or niche about the cluster of planets gone to rack and ruin [ much less anything related to ancient alien technology ]. and although exploring the stars isn't new to her plethora of nonpareil experiences - leaving the outlands was another story entirely.
at least she'll never feel alone. “ i'm gonna keep it real with you ... i've never been to the frontier. suotamo has a sister city on angelia, but kairi's told me it's a ghost town post-conflict ... i'm not even sure there's gonna be anything left of what we're looking for, if it exists at all. ”
HKE-3 nods in return, a silent display of gratitude; Hadal is touched by her trust in him. Not that he thinks she needs him fretting over her wellbeing like a mother hen—no, he's very aware that the weaponsmith is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. (Still, he remains the mother hen).
"Would that I could assure your safety, Miss Parekh—but I cannot." The drone frowns down at its handheld device, the aperture of its eye narrowed and antennae swept back. "Most news that arrives from our destination is years stale. There is a high probability we will encounter bandits, or..."
Hadal trails off, his words hanging in the air for a moment before he seems to resynchronize with the remote platform. He taps at the screen with his stylus, gaze flickering over the stream of data. "I'm confident all will go smoothly," he says in a tone that suggests anything but. He may be a construct of war, but mastering the act of lying proves more difficult than ship-to-ship combat.
"We may depart for my vessel—" Is that the correct phrasing to use in this context? He's never been sure. "... for the dreadnought within the hour. Will there be anything else, Miss Parekh?"
"It's alright. I will be okay."
Nitelight does as he's told, dutifully following the two smaller drones off through the dense bustle of the crowd. There was much happening here - a hive of symbiotes; a swarm of movement-hungry metal. Initially, in his mind, he was following Hadal, but he was unsure if this notion was correct. Were the drones Hadal? Hadal controlled them, that much he was certain of, but did controlling something inherently make them you? If that was the case, the majority of Cybertronian history would have to employ a lot more faux-nuance. Regardless, ruminating over such things now felt somewhat arbitrary. Arbitrary, and potentially harmful. He erased the sentiment from his mind. Best not to dwell on it. Hadal (or, Hadal's drone) was speaking to him. "My quarters will be fine as they are. There's no need to worry about it-" Nitelight has to duck and swerve for a moment to avoid a much taller mech that had just carelessly stepped out in front of him.
A quiet apology, and he continues. "-and.. thank you, again, Hadal." ------☼------
Hadal isn't entirely sure what to make of his new passenger. The Cybertronian is quieter, more withdrawn, than he was expecting; and he cannot place whether or not that is a positive. It's clear that something is weighing on his mind, and the dreadnought knows he will not be able to relax until he identifies that unspoken burden. HKE-7 watches Nitelight closely as they weave through the crowd of midday commuters, cautious so to not be trampled underfoot by an oblivious heavyweight.
—the shuttle is blessedly quiet, after the overwhelming crush of the station. The drones activate their magnetic soles with the barely perceptible hum of their sub-systems cycling online, anchoring themselves to the floor as the shuttle lurches into action. It's an old, creaky thing, and Hadal feels some sympathy for the inanimate vessel as it claws free of Cybertron's wispy atmosphere and into the void of space.
The thank you comes as a surprise (not entirely unwelcome), and it's a few moments before Hadal responds with sombre gravity. "You're very welcome, Nitelight." One of the drones folds its hands in a show of contemplation, its mechanical eye refocusing with a series of audible clicks, while the other gazes through a viewport.
"If you are running from something dangerous, I would appreciate it if you informed me." It's a warning made gentle by the softening of his synthetic tones, but a warning nonetheless. "You would not be the first to use me as a method of escape. I cannot help you—or keep myself safe, should it come to that—if I'm left in the dark."
Both drones look at Nitelight, now. Beyond the rattling hull of the shuttle, the massive shadow of the Hekatonite dreadnought drapes across them like a funeral shroud, blotting out the stars and plunging the cabin into artificial night. "I cannot disobey my programming that dictates I must assist my passengers," Hadal says quietly. Programming doesn't feel like the right term; it feels like more of an instinct, something beyond the trappings of mere code. "It would sadden me if you took advantage of that."
The skies that hung overhead were long and wild and never-ending, stretched hollow over a blanket of warm stars that hung weightless; pulsing like something strange and eviscerate, looping notions of light in a vast black ocean that contained within it nothing but the most unseemly of deep-sea life. Vessels existed there, whale-falls embracing the endlessness, moving through time chock-full of unmarried experiences and disconnected realities; waves and waves of both nothing and everything. Nitelight had never particularly enjoyed being in space. He wasn't quite sure if it was a lingering fear of vast, pitch stretches of nothing - he'd known those since the beginning, and he actually found them to be quite reassuring once there was the stability of ground pressing into his back. Maybe he was frightened of the uncertainty of it all. Existentialism flourished in the pulsing bloodbeat of the stars, and no beast nor mech nor limbic kin to that reverential light could prove themselves an outlier to that strange phenomena - a dance orchestrated by no one being alone, a universal reduction to bone and muscle and steel, and further still to atoms, and to the electrons that too danced in arcing, pulsing spheres around the most miniscule fractions of hylics. Beauty unrestrained, flourishing and unyielding in its apathy. Nothing was the fault of no one. It terrified him. Still, life existed elsewhere. Stupidly, it spurred him onwards. Mismatched eyes flickered downwards at the mention of his designation, blinking softly as he focused on the... admittedly quite small drones. He did his best to force the fact from his mind; truth held to it or not, it felt astonishingly rude. "It's okay," Comes his initial response, vocalisations dampened with a constant soft, fuzzy static that seemed to stain every sound that left him. A gentle murmuration, somewhat blurring his already quiet syllables.
Nitelight slips down from his perch, landing with a clear clunk of metal. His next response is punctuated by the slight cant of his head. "I'm still interested. We are... leaving now, yes?"
------☼------
"Within the next solar phase, correct." The hopefully goes unsaid, echoed in the slight tilt of their heads as the drones glance sidelong at each other. As always, Hadal is bound to the whims of the system authorities; he cannot leave until he's successfully jumped through whatever hoops they deem necessary. "If you'll follow my drones, we can work on getting you situated."
"I've arranged your personal quarters to the specifications outlined in your contract." The greatest expense had been purchasing a halfway decent energon refinery; he couldn't have his passenger starve (or whatever it is Cybertronians do when they run out of fuel) during the voyage. He's never lost a passenger, and he doesn't intend wilful ignorance to be the cause of the first.
"As I mentioned before, this is my first time working with a Cybertronian. Doubtless there will be changes you wish to make to your quarters; you only have to say what, and I will make it happen." The drones move in perfect synchrony; only their heads move at odd angles from each other, swivelling back and forth as they analyze their surroundings. He'll have to return to Cybertron, someday, when he's amassed enough wealth for a comfortable retirement. What better place to situate himself semi-permanently than the homeworld of a mechanical race known for their vehicular changeforms?
"You may call me Hadal," he switches to speak through HKE-4 alone, the introduction tacked on as an afterthought. Nitelight already knows his name, but as this is the first instance they've spoken face-to-face, he feels a certain obligation. "There is no need to refer to me as captain, unless you'd prefer to observe such formalities. Aside from myself, I'm afraid it'll be just you aboard. Are you sure you'll be comfortable with the isolation? Your contract says you're planning on an indefinite journey."
He'd never really had much of an urge to leave before. Granted, this time around it was for a relatively innocent reason - an urge to know somewhere else, driven solely by pure scientific curiosity. He'd been elsewhere before, yes, but he hasn't exhausted his mind of anywhere other than Cybertron for millenia. Tired of not being tired, if that was something he was capable of. It probably was; his hands were meant for endless work, and during the war that was something far more easily achieved. Peace had its endless benefits, and he would not be so shortsighted as to deny them, but he was idle. Restless. The knowledge of it bored into his very being, settling heavy in the tail-ends of his psyche, dragging around alongside him until he was certain that he might go a little stir-crazy from the added weight of it. He'd go off somewhere else and burn himself out, and then he could come home and be normal about his workload for another little while. Running off to Primus-knows-where was a bit of a drastic move, but as much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, he'd never really been good at responsible decisions. A lot of his memories could be classed as gross mistakes. His choice of transport could prove to be another one, but he'd like to give them the benefit of the doubt. That doubt being why Nitelight was now waiting where he was told to be waiting, quietly swinging his legs off of the edge of a raised platform that wasn't really a seat, but he'd placed himself there regardless. It'd be fine - nobody had told him to get down yet.
Cybertron gleams like a jewel in the light of her distant star; a magnificent sight, even with the millennia of war that has left her surface scarred. It takes three days for the system authorities to approve Hadal's credentials and allow him access to the trade frequencies. Three days in which he stares at that vibrant ball of metal and wonders how many living there struggle to swallow the too-sweet taste of peace. Three days in which he muses on the fact that, across the boundless cosmos and the countless species that inhabit it, war is altogether the same.
On the fourth day, he opens his comms to the usual flurry of activity. Most contacts are simple enough; traders eager to discuss his inventory (warily accepted), unsavory types wishing to wield the firepower of a Hekatonite dreadnought for themselves (these he ignores), even a few requests from scientists to board and study his systems in detail (these he declines, as politely as he can). Only one stands out to him as unusual: an open contract from one of the natives who simply wants to be anywhere else.
Hadal accepts, even if it's ultimately against his better judgement. It's been several months since he last accepted passengers; and that contract had been one of the shortest he's entertained, less than a year's passage across the Perseus Arm. Hardly enough time to build a lasting rapport with the group of excitable tourists to which he had been both home and guide. There's trepidation, of sorts, as he notifies the wannabe runaway that he is willing to listen to their terms.
—he's never ferried a Cybertronian before. He's heard the rumors, of course; the horror stories of technoism and other assorted atrocities that trouble even him, desensitized as he is. He can only pray he's negotiating with one of the less questionable members of their race. A pacifistic Autobot or even a polite neutral would be acceptable; a Decepticon warmonger less so.
He mentally prepares for the worst, then shunts his attention towards the traders. His cargo of naquadah proves to be especially popular in this sector (a fact memorized for future opportunities), and the returns are surprisingly lucrative for a civilization so recently impoverished by war. Hadal lingers in Cybertron's orbit for the better part of a month, bartering a variety of new cargo, before the time inevitably comes to move on.
—an invitation to a pre-determined rendezvous is sent, belatedly. He lets his system diagnostics cycle in the background of his vast intelligence as he dispatches HKE-4 and HKE-7 to the planet's surface to meet with his prospective passenger. As small as they are in comparison to the native populace, his drones have little trouble navigating the bustling spaceport.
"Nitelight?" HKE-4 and HKE-7 stand shoulder-to-shoulder in mirrored stances, their hands folded politely. "I am ready to depart; I apologize for the delay. I trust you are still interested?"
