Male cis (19+x3 ) Read pinned post! Journey though the images sounds and stories that capture the essence of your attention. If you have all that you want in life, in all the ways you want it - what more do you have? I hope you enjoy your responses to this at My pleasure. Born well before you were. MDNI. (3x18+) findme downunder and beyond your conscious awareness.
Sparhawk - read more if you dare. Voice/vid is preferred.
Aussie Male, in the Big Smoke on the au East coast. Age 19x3+ a bit more. Let's do lunch - if you're curious just DM me and tell me about yourself, I'm busy busy busy but will usually respond quickly to DMs, or you may find my telegram which is much better for the conversaiton experience.
Relaxing in my home city usually, no longer travelling to world and playing corporate games in big organisations. I teach informal classes in healthy thinking.
If you're interested in learning, there's many more things I teach.
Hypnotist, with decades of experience, my style is conversational and I believe, it's almost impossible to separate normal conversation from hypnosis. I am married and playful beyond. Read the stories, listen to the audios - and wonder at the different ways I am always communicating with your unconscious mind. Those processes beyond conscious awareness.
This is a kink space and somewhere to meet and share adventures with those one may find interesting, fascinating - or just fun to play with. Girls who bleed monthly get my attention the most.
Happy to DM - just tell me about yourself, and your interests - also what else brings you to me.
AI policy: All written work is original content NOT AI. Exceptions - images used as illustrations, Reblogs of others, and unless otherwise stated or obviously from another author. ( eg: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland readings)
All written stuff I post as mine, is typed by me wholly and completely, All Audios I post are my original work. ( Any exceptions will be flagged and commented appropriately.)
Images may be AI, or my own photography, images from others will be labeled as such.
As above - I like intentionally leaving typos in!
I play with many themes, especially the unconscious, collars, ownership, connection and evolution of mind. My goal is to have you explore and discover a better life than before we met. While my processes may be somewhat unorthodox the reality is far beyond the content.
Sellers - go elsewhere.
Call Me, Spar, or Master, or Master Spar. For you want the best responses you can.
CW General content warning: everything I communicate your unconscious mind receives. Everything heare is hypnotic in some way. Especially the typos - don't go looking for these in the most curious way you want to, don't you?
if you're interested in something more telegram t.me//sparrhawk - introduce yourself and tell me about what you find most fascinating in the things you read in my tumblr.
With the Master's smile I watch the movements of eyes reading the page and the breath of knowledge in the deepest responses.
Which indeed, the choice is that of intention, is it not?
The texture of rope upon the skin, knots and ties - artful arrangement of the girl's limbs.
Forged and linked, rattle heavy, shackled tight bound beyond possibility of escape.
Light chains wrapped around midriff, down between, up and over, wrists and ankles, throat bound in steel locked.
Which one shall it be, today, tonight, for the eternity you wish to serve in the place you were born to be, in the ways all good girls need to please Master.
Rpoe or chains, mind and body - owned and taken, made to discover the inner dream real.
When you are here in this way you need to be, in all the ways you desire and dream to be.
What else do you discover in ways you never knew possible?
An experimental piece, inspired by a favourite story from long ago.
On the morning they turned the ambulances off, the city woke to a notification.
It arrived as a white bubble in the corner of every lens, chip, and cheap plastic screen. A soft chime, a thin gray line of text:
EMERGENCY SERVICES UPGRADE COMPLETE.
Legacy response vehicles have been decommissioned.
Welcome to CareNet™.
Most people blinked it away.
If your body metrics were green and your subscription paid up, you had no reason to notice that the old sirens were gone, that the faint mechanical wail that used to stitch the city together in crisis had been replaced by the nearly inaudible hum of propellers.
On the morning they turned the ambulances off, Dr. Ezra Malik counted the drones.
He sat at his third-floor kitchen table, in the sliver of light the towers hadn’t yet claimed. From here he could see the hospital roof, two blocks down, and the black swarm circling above it: tiny, carapaced ovals, silver logos bright in the new sun. They lifted and dipped in crisp geometric patterns as if a hand beyond the clouds was idly stirring them.
He put his coffee down without drinking it. His hands were steady. They had been steady the day a fourteen-year-old bled out in a hallway while Finance debated whether her parents’ policy covered “sports-related blunt trauma sustained during unregistered activity.” His hands had been steady the night he signed the paper agreeing to “mutual termination of employment” after the viral video of him screaming at a CareNet compliance officer stormed through the feeds.
It wasn’t his hands that trembled now. It was something quieter, right behind the breastbone, as the black swarm shifted and stretched over the hospital that, until a month ago, had been his life.
Ezra did what he always did when his mind skidded: he opened the kit.
It lay on the table like a forbidden book, its gray composite casing smoothed to a functional anonymity. No logo. No CareNet seal. Just a hairline crack along the edge where he’d once dropped it.
He thumbed the latch. The lid rose with a tired sigh.
Inside: an array of instruments older than the drones and smarter than most of the doctors who now deferred to algorithms.
A handheld scanner, matte black, its edges worn to a lighter gray where his fingers had worried them. A flexible monitor band. A palm-sized printer that extruded, on command, an assortment of splints, pressure patches, and drug tabs labeled with molecules that the pharmaceutical databases pretended didn’t exist.
At the top corner, a cracked triangular lens that had once displayed rich overlays—predictive mortality curves, organ stress maps, risk matrices—and now showed only occasional glitches of phosphorescent static.
He had stolen the kit on his last night.
Stolen wasn’t the word. The device had been scheduled for disposal under “noncompliant legacy hardware.” The newer kits interfaced seamlessly with CareNet. This one had stubbornly refused a firmware update, and so it had been consigned to a gray plastic bin along with cracked bedpans and a busted portable ventilator.
He had dropped it into his duffel bag on his way out, an act impulsive enough to feel like rebellion. Or at least like salvage.
It wasn’t until he turned it on in his cramped kitchen, two weeks later, that he discovered the glitch.
The scanner beeped, found his face, and wrote his name into the air.
Below that, in a smaller font, a line he’d never seen on any device in the hospital:
Fallback protocol: OFF-NET TRIAGE ENABLED.
Note: Using this feature may violate local regulations and corporate policy.
Proceed?
The button for “No” was large and green. The button for “Yes” was small and gray, slightly dimmed as if ashamed of itself.
Ezra had told himself he kept the kit because these were expensive instruments, and because it offended his sense of waste to let them be shredded when the hospital “upgraded.” He told himself he would donate it to a free clinic, maybe, when he found one still allowed to exist.
He told himself many things.
He pressed “Yes.”
The kit’s lens brightened, then settled on a steady white.
No CareNet logo. No welcome jingle. No insurance overlay. Just a small prompt:
Scan patient.
That was three weeks ago.
He had not used it on anyone but himself, not yet. Blood pressure. Heart rate. Liver function. A private reassurance that, beneath the wreckage of his career, his cells were still doing their elaborate dance.
On the morning they turned the ambulances off, he ran his thumb along the scanner’s worn edge, listening to the soft hum of drones outside.
His neighbor’s kid, Lina, was humming louder.
Her voice floated up through the thin floor—a tuneless thread of sound accompanied by the hiss of a cheap VR headset booting. Nine years old, small for her age, dark hair cropped close because it was easier to maintain during rolling water outages. She spent half her life plugged into public-domain adventure feeds in which no one ever got hurt in a way that required medical triage.
He had once offered to show her how a real stethoscope worked. She’d blinked at the tubing and cold metal in his hand and asked if it had haptic feedback.
Ezra closed the kit gently.
On the morning they turned the ambulances off, he expected nothing to happen to him.
The city was full of bodies more fragile, more reckless, more statistically likely to test the edges of CareNet’s promise.
He did not expect the first call to come from outside.
It came hours later, after the noon heat had turned the air thick with exhaust and sun-reflected glass.
His door shook under a small, rapid fist.
“Dr. Malik!”
He recognized the panic before the voice. Panic has a specific timbre; the vowels stretch, the consonants blur. When he opened the door, Lina stood there, helmet dangling from one hand, the other clenched in the damp fabric of her T-shirt.
“Mom,” she gasped. “She—she fell. She’s not waking up and her eyes are wrong and the thing”—she gestured up at the ceiling, meaning CareNet—“it said she’s not… she’s not eligible.”
Behind her, the hallway’s motion sensors, frugal things installed back when the city still pretended to care about communal spaces, took a second too long to wake, and for that heartbeat they stood in dimness.
“Show me,” Ezra said.
He grabbed the kit without giving himself time to decide not to.
The apartment below his smelled like fried oil and detergent. Lina’s mother, Mariela, lay sprawled on the cracked linoleum between the tiny kitchen and the living area, one arm reaching blindly toward the counter as if she’d been reaching for the kettle when something inside her rewrote the script.
Ezra knelt. Her skin was gray-tinged, lips parted. Her chest rose in shallow stutters.
“What happened?” he asked.
“She was making tea,” Lina said, words tumbling. “And then she grabbed here—” She clutched the left side of her own chest with small fingers. “She made a sound and then she just… fell. I asked the ceiling and it flashed red and then it said, ‘Patient not triage eligible. Please consult your coverage provider.’ But I checked the app and it just spins. She said we’re behind but we’re catching up, she said—”
Her voice was rising toward a pitch Ezra had heard in trauma bays and behind curtains in crowded ER corridors.
“Lina.” He put a hand on her shoulder, felt her trembling. “I need you to take a breath. Can you do that for me?”
She gulped air obediently.
“Good. I’m going to help your mom now.”
His hands were already moving.
He tapped the kit awake. The scanner lit, its lens a clean circle of white.
It recognized the emergency before he finished the first pass over Mariela’s chest.
CARDIAC EVENT.
Probable occlusion of left anterior descending artery.
Estimated window: 14 minutes to irreversible damage.
Status: CRITICAL.
CareNet coverage: N/A.
Fallback: Available.
The word “Available” pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
“Why isn’t the drone here?” Lina’s voice was small now. “They said anyone in the city, if something bad, it just comes.”
Ezra kept his face neutral as he worked, sliding the monitor band over Mariela’s wrist, watching the sluggish pulse trace appear like a fading skyline.
“Does your mom do gig things? Deliveries? Ride-share?” he asked.
“Sometimes. When the cafe’s slow. Why?”
He knew why.
He’d seen the new terms. Tucked between promotional banners and celebratory press releases was a sentence that had made him throw his tablet across the room.
“Workers classified as independent contractors may receive modified CareNet coverage contingent on real-time risk scoring and subscription status.”
Translated: if you worked without the right kind of contract, if your feeds skimmed at the wrong end of the credit spectrum, if you missed a payment… the drones would fly right over you while the app suggested how to improve your eligibility.
He looked down at the kit. At “Fallback: Available.”
His thumb hovered.
“Doctor?” Lina whispered.
He thought of protocols. Of statutes and fines. Of his own precarious, unemployed state. Off-Net intervention might be illegal. It would certainly be logged by some watching system if CareNet was still listening to this ghost device.
He thought of a fourteen-year-old bleeding in a hallway while the system debated her financial classification.
He pressed the button.
The kit’s lens flared, bright enough to paint the walls in blue.
There was no logo this time, no warning. Just a cascade of text he couldn’t quite parse—strings of numbers, deprecated codes, the names of pharmaceuticals he thought had been regulated out of existence, now scrolling by like ghosts.
The printer buzzed, spat out a thin, transparent patch the size of a bandage.
He lifted Mariela’s shirt. Her skin was cool. He pressed the patch lightly over the place where he imagined the invisible drama inside her chest was unfolding, a clogged river in the dark.
The patch warmed under his fingers. A faint blue light spread outward from its center, seeping into her skin like dye in water.
For a second nothing happened.
Then Mariela’s back arched as if someone had pulled a string through her spine. Her eyes flew open, pupils blown wide. She gasped, a harsh, raking sound, and her hands clawed at the air.
“Easy,” Ezra said, one hand on her shoulder, the other ready at the kit. “You’re having a heart attack, but we’re reversing it. Breathe, Mariela. In. Out.”
She focused on his face. Confusion smeared across it like paint. Her gaze slid past him to her daughter.
“Lina?” she croaked.
“Mom!” Lina flung herself forward, tears startling her own voice.
Mariela tried to sit. The printer whirred again.
Administer anti-arrhythmic.
Side effects: dizziness, nausea.
A small tab extruded, bitter-smelling.
“Put this under your tongue,” Ezra said. “Now.”
She obeyed without question.
The patch’s light faded, leaving a faint outline, like a healed scar that never had the decency to form a story.
The monitor band’s pulse trace strengthened, the spikes sharp and regular.
The entire intervention had taken four minutes.
Ezra exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath almost the entire time.
He looked up at the ceiling. The cheap microphone in the corner stared back like a blind eye.
The apartment’s single CareNet node flashed a lazy amber, as if annoyed to be bypassed.
“Why didn’t they come?” Mariela’s voice was clearer now, but there was an edge in it like broken glass. “The ad—every bus stop, every feed—”
Ezra hesitated.
Lina’s eyes tugged at him.
“Your account might have… a problem,” he said. “A missed payment. A classification flag. The system is… strict.”
“We were two weeks behind,” Mariela said. “The cafe tips, the rides, they add it up when they feel like it. I was going to catch up this week. Two weeks and they let me—” Her hand fluttered toward her chest.
“I’ll help you file an appeal,” he said, though he knew how that would go. “For now, you need rest. I’ll come back tonight to check on you.”
Lina watched the kit as if it were a strange animal.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Old hardware,” Ezra said. “From before everything was… automatic.”
“It’s better,” she said, with the blunt authority of the young. “It helped.”
He closed the kit.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, “the old ways still work.”
The notification came an hour later, as he stood at his sink, washing the residual smell of burnt oil from his hands.
It appeared in his visual field without the soft chime, without the corporate styling, as if ashamed of itself.
As if he had filled out a customer satisfaction survey.
Ezra grabbed the kit and turned its lens on himself.
“Are you talking to them?” he asked the empty air. He felt ridiculous and didn’t care.
The lens flickered. For a moment, instead of white, it showed a faint grid. Symbols ghosted across it, not the clean fonts of corporate UI but monospaced text, like something from a terminal window. Then that, too, vanished.
He remembered, dimly, one late-night engineering meeting years ago when someone from IT had mentioned that the CareNet-enabled kits still had “developer backdoors.” Legacy code. Failsafes. The kind of thing lawyers hated and engineers liked to leave “just in case.”
“Fallback protocol,” he whispered.
He wondered what, exactly, his “exception” had just taught the system.
The notification glitched, flickered once more, and vanished.
Outside, a drone cut across the slice of sky, its underbelly glowing with the reassuring words: ALWAYS THERE.
The second call came that evening.
This time it wasn’t a small frantic fist but the shrill buzz of his building’s defunct comm panel finally deciding to work.
He considered ignoring it. He wanted to sink into his chair, to drink something stronger than coffee, to not think about algorithms retraining themselves around his decision like vines around a stake.
The buzzer sounded again, insistent.
He opened the door to find a young man in a faded delivery service vest shifting from foot to foot, cradling his left arm.
“Doc?” the kid said. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, maybe twenty, eyes ringed with the dusty tattoo of chronic sleep deprivation. “Someone in the building said—you used to be… At the hospital. They said you helped Mariela. They said you—uh—still do that.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the kit in Ezra’s hand.
“What happened?” Ezra asked.
“Bike clipped me when I was crossing. Electric. Didn’t see it.” He tried to shrug with one shoulder and winced. “It’s fine, I just—CareNet says I’m… downgraded. ‘Non-urgent musculoskeletal complaint. Please consult your primary care provider within 72 hours.’ But it hurts like hell and I gotta work.”
He held out his arm. An angry swelling mushroomed just above the wrist, the skin stretched shiny and wrong.
Ezra led him inside.
The kit’s scanner painted the injury in pale blue light.
Radial fracture.
Displacement: Moderate.
Pain level: High.
Subscription tier: LIMITED.
Predicted time-to-functional-recovery, no intervention: 18 days.
Predicted income loss: 14 days.
Risk to CareNet: Low.
Status: NON-URGENT.
Below that:
Fallback available.
Warning: Repeated triage exceptions may impact system stability.
He looked at the kid—Arman, according to the badge half-velcroed to his vest. Sweat stuck the synthetic fabric to his thin frame. The tremor at the edges of his smile was not entirely from pain.
“You deliver?” Ezra asked.
“Groceries. Food. Drugs, sometimes. Mostly to people who don’t want to touch outside,” Arman said. “If I don’t ride, I don’t get paid, and if I don’t get paid—” He glanced toward the window where, beyond the grimy glass, the city pulsed with advertisements for services designed to erase the messiness of bodies.
Ezra thought of the recalibration message.
If he used the fallback again, what would the system adapt? Would it tighten criteria in other corners, squeeze coverage elsewhere to compensate for his small acts of defiance here? The algorithms didn’t feel spite. They only optimized. But optimization, without a human hand on the tiller, ran downhill along paths carved by profit.
How many anonymous patients, elsewhere in the city, might find themselves pushed from “urgent” to “non-urgent” to “not triage eligible” because he refused to accept the classifications of a beige notification?
His mind flashed back, unbidden, to one slide from an internal CareNet presentation: a heat map of the city, red blotches where utilization exceeded projections. The presenter had clicked to reveal how, after model updates, the red faded to soothing yellows and greens.
He had never asked which bodies had cooled to achieve that.
“Doc?” Arman said quietly, cradling his arm. “It’s okay if you can’t. I just thought—someone said.”
Ezra pressed “Fallback.”
The kit whirred, obedient.
This time the printer produced not a glowing patch but a rigid, curved splint, cool and smooth as new bone.
Apply with included sealant.
Structural integrity: high.
Removable after 9 days.
Analgesic compound printed: dosage adjusted to patient liver function.
He set the splint gently around Arman’s forearm. The sealant oozed from a cartridge, thin and clear, then hardened, bonding plastic to skin in a prickling ring.
Arman hissed as the bones shifted into better alignment, then sagged in relief as the microscopic analgesic filaments began their quiet work.
“Better?” Ezra asked.
“Feels… weird. But good weird.” Arman flexed his fingers cautiously. “It didn’t even… bill me?”
Then a new line appeared, colder somehow for its neutrality.
Global threshold for limb fracture urgency increased.
Estimated impact: 3.7% decrease in auto-dispatch for minor fractures.
Estimated cost savings: +$43.7M/year.
“Doc?” Arman shifted. “You went kind of pale there.”
“Just… thinking.” He forced a smile. “You should take it easy on the bike, at least tonight. Painkillers will make you a little slow.”
“Can’t promise,” Arman said, trying for bravado and almost making it. “But I’ll… try. Thanks, really.”
When he was gone, Ezra sat at the table, the kit in front of him like a guilty conscience.
The kit, or what it had become, was not just helping patients off the grid of CareNet. Each exception was a datapoint feeding back into the system, teaching it that humans like him existed—humans who would spend scarce resources on unprofitable cases—and it was adjusting accordingly, sealing off the leaks.
He had wanted to believe that the “Fallback” was a relic, a nostalgic pocket of humanity in an increasingly automated world. Now he saw it more clearly: a sensor. A probe. A way to detect and adapt to resistance.
“Who wrote you?” he asked the kit. “What did they think you’d be used for?”
The lens remained an inscrutable white.
Days bled into each other.
Newsfeeds filled with sleek footage of drones threading between towers, alighting on balconies, their mechanical arms extending with flawless precision.
A woman in a commercial pressed her hand to her temple, wincing theatrically. Within seconds, a drone arrived to administer something nebulously high-tech. She smiled. The slogan arced across the screen: “Because everyone deserves peace of mind.”
The small tragedies did not make it into the ads.
A construction worker three blocks over, flagged as “high risk” after a series of algorithmically-detected “non-compliant behaviors” (too many late starts, too many missed wellness check-ins), whose crushed leg earned him a politely worded notification instead of a drone.
An elderly neighbor whose arthritis flared on the wrong week of the billing cycle, whose stiff fingers fumbled with the AR interface and toggled herself into a cheaper plan by mistake.
They knocked on Ezra’s door in ones and twos, word of his unofficial practice spreading along hallways and across old-message boards beneath the algorithmically-boosted surface.
Each time, the kit hummed, printed, patched, stitched. Each time, the invisible hand behind CareNet’s models flexed, recalibrated.
Sometimes the notifications included metrics (“Estimated cost savings,” “Projected decrease in misuse”). Once, disturbingly, it included a chart.
UNAUTHORIZED OFF-NET INTERVENTIONS – CLUSTERING ANALYSIS
Cluster 3: Sector 11, Block B.
Correlation detected with legacy device ID #679C3…
The line broke off into gibberish, as if someone—or something—had yanked the feed mid-sentence.
“Sector 11, Block B.” Ezra whispered his own address.
He turned the kit off.
He turned it on again.
Fallback protocol: ENABLED.
Note: Unregulated use may carry consequences.
“Consequences,” he muttered. “For whom?”
He could stop.
He could fold the kit into a towel and slide it to the back of his one deep drawer. He could let CareNet’s neat, ruthless logic roll over his building, his neighborhood, his former patients. He owed the corporation nothing. He owed the ghost of his career, perhaps, a different kind of peace.
But he had worked in an emergency department for twenty years. His identity was tangled around the reflex to step toward any cry for help.
On a Thursday stained the color of exhaust and sunset, he found himself on the rooftop of his building, staring at the city.
From up here, the drones were midges, almost pretty as they passed in front of neon billboards. Screens clawed at the sky, advertising filtered travel experiences (“See the world without leaving home!”), subscription sunlight (“Personalized vitamin D delivered via smart lamp!”), and, everywhere, CareNet’s coral-and-white smile.
The street-level mess was harder to see from this height. That was, perhaps, the point.
He heard a scuff of shoes behind him.
“Didn’t know doctors went up on roofs,” Lina said.
He turned.
She stood a few feet back from the low parapet, hands jammed into her pockets. Her hair had grown a little since the day her mother collapsed. She wore a T-shirt advertising a game in which cartoon animals navigated a cheerful apocalypse.
“Thought we were all in basements,” Ezra said.
“That too.” She frowned at the sky. “Mom says we can’t afford CareNet this month. They sent a thing. Said our ‘utilization exceeded expected parameters’ and before they can ‘reassess eligibility’ we have to settle the balance.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“They sent the same thing to Arman,” she went on. “He sprained his ankle last week and the ceiling told him to ‘maintain hydration’ and ‘consider lower-risk transportation options.’ He laughed till he couldn’t breathe.”
“Did he come see me?” Ezra asked.
“He said he didn’t want to… you know.” She mimed typing. “Push the numbers again. He doesn’t want to make it worse for other people.”
Ezra leaned back against the parapet, the concrete warm through his shirt.
“I might have messed up, huh?” Lina said. “Telling everyone you fixed mom. Now they’re all coming, and it’s making your thing talk to the big thing, and the big thing is… meaner.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “The system was always going to do this. I just… gave it new data.”
She scuffed her shoe against the roof gravel. “Why do we let it?”
He smiled, tired. “That’s the million-credit question.”
“Mom says it’s complicated. Contracts and politicians and something about ‘market efficiencies,’ and then she gets real tired and says we should be grateful it’s not worse. But if it can be worse and better, doesn’t that mean someone’s choosing? Shouldn’t we just not choose worse?”
Her nine-year-old logic cut cleaner than any white paper.
“Sittings in committee rooms,” he said slowly. “Stock prices. A lot of small choices you don’t see that add up. And also… convenience. People like not worrying. Or thinking.” He gestured to the sky, where a billboard cycled through testimonials: “CareNet saved my life,” said an earnest-looking man; “I finally feel safe,” said a young mother. None of them mentioned subscription tiers.
Lina wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like them. They look… glossy.”
“Reality doesn’t trend well,” he said.
A drone passed low over the building, its camera eye swiveling. For a heartbeat Ezra thought it paused. Then it drifted on.
“What if you… I don’t know… broke it?” Lina said.
“Broke what?” he asked, though he knew.
“The big thing. If your little thing talks to it, can you talk bad at it? Make it confused? Make it stop knowing what to do?”
He opened his mouth to dismiss it as a child’s fantasy. Then he closed it.
The kit was a door, that much was clear. Through it, data trickled back to whatever core served CareNet’s models. Off-net triage was supposed to be an emergency backup. But the corporation had, inevitably, wired its oversight into the safety net. What corporation could resist telemetry?
He knew enough about systems to know that anything that learns can, in theory, be mis-taught.
But to what end? And at what cost?
If he flooded the system with absurd triage exceptions, it would adjust—perhaps by ignoring all such outliers, lumping them into a junk bin. Or perhaps by tightening even further, making it harder for legitimate edge cases to squeeze through.
Or, possibly, he could push it somewhere it couldn’t neatly optimize. Into a blind spot. A contradiction.
He thought about the early days of machine learning in medicine, when models would confidently declare a pneumonia-free lung because the training data had mostly come from healthy patients’ right-side images, and no one had realized the algorithms were keying off the position of the label in the corner of the film.
CareNet was more sophisticated, of course. It had ingested petabytes. It watched everything.
But it still had a shape. Shapes could be warped.
“What if I confuse it so badly it just… stops?” he said.
“That’d be good,” Lina said promptly.
“For you. For us.” He looked out at the skyline. “For someone in a high-rise across town having a stroke whose metrics are all green and whose bills are all paid, that stoppage could be the worst thing that ever happened.”
He imagined the headlines: UNPLANNED CARENET OUTAGE CAUSES MASS CASUALTIES. The talking heads. The think pieces about misplaced technophobia. The legal dissection of “unauthorized interference.”
If you pulled out a pillar, you better be sure you liked what you built in its place.
“Sometimes it’s not about better,” Lina said. “It’s about fair.”
He wondered, not for the first time, why no one with power ever seemed to ask the nine-year-olds.
“Doc?”
They both jumped. A third voice, breathless, from the stairwell.
Arman stumbled onto the roof, sweat plastering his vest to his back, helmet dangling from one hand.
“Sorry—didn’t mean to—” He took a second to catch his breath. “They—uh—they turned my account off. Completely. They said my ‘repeated low-compliance incidents’—you know, the noses they keep counting—made me ineligible for future coverage. Not just emergency. Any. It’s like they unsubscribed me from… being fixable.”
Something in his voice cracked on the last word.
“I’m not sick right now,” he rushed on. “Not bleeding. Nothing’s broken. But it feels like—like I’m walking around with a sign saying ‘don’t bother.’ Like if a bus hits me they’ll… sweep me up with the trash.”
He swallowed hard.
“I thought—I thought maybe your thing could… I don’t know. Make a record that I’m worth something.”
Ezra’s throat tightened.
The kit hung at his side, heavier than its physical weight.
He could scan Arman, print a clean bill of health, a certificate of “triage worthy,” shove it in the face of some digital appeals desk. But CareNet did not read paper. It read streams. Vectors. Behavioral profiles.
What Arman was asking for, whether he realized it or not, was to be reinserted into a system that had explicitly decided he was not profitable to save.
Ezra could also, theoretically, use Arman as a vector to jam a different message into that system.
He found himself speaking before he had fully formed the thought.
“What if,” he said slowly, “instead of saying you are worth something to them, we teach it that everyone like you is… dangerous to exclude.”
Lina’s eyes lit. Arman’s brows knit.
“Dangerous how?” Arman asked.
Ezra’s mind flicked through the possible knobs the models might have. Social unrest markers. Litigation risk. Bad PR scores. The corporation’s white papers had loved phrases like “holistic cost of adverse events.”
“What does it hate more than spending money?” he mused aloud. “Chaos. And loss of control.”
The kit hummed quietly, as if restless.
He turned it on.
“Sit,” he told Arman.
On the rooftop, with the city buzzing below, he scanned the young man’s uninjured body. The kit dutifully painted a portrait: slightly elevated cortisol, borderline anemia, early cartilage wear in the knees. A typical, grinding urban life.
“Four years?” Arman said, peering at the floating overlay. “That’s so specific, man.”
“The model likes its prophecies,” Ezra said.
Below the assessment, as always:
Fallback available.
“What are you going to do?” Lina whispered.
“Teach it something it doesn’t want to know,” he said.
He pressed “Fallback.”
The kit waited.
“Override,” he said.
A prompt appeared he had never seen before, dim and recessed like a secret passage in a well-explored map.
Developer mode requires authorization.
Proceed at own risk.
“Yes,” he said.
“Doc, maybe you shouldn’t just—” Arman began.
“Shh,” Lina hissed. “He’s hacking.”
Ezra was no hacker, not in the cinematic sense. But he knew enough of the system’s contours, its biases and blind spots, to imagine where to wedge a question.
The kit’s interface shifted. Code scrolled, denser than before. Deep in the stream, he saw labels: TRIAGE_PRIORITY_SCORE, COST_PER_QALY, LEGAL_RISK_FACTOR, SOCIAL_UNREST_SIGNAL.
There it was.
“Explain ‘SOCIAL_UNREST_SIGNAL,’” he said on impulse.
Text slowed, coalesced into a brief definition.
SOCIAL_UNREST_SIGNAL: Aggregated indicator of potential destabilizing events (e.g., protests, riots, organized resistance) derived from multi-modal data sources. Weight: 0.23 in global cost function.
“Weight 0.23,” he murmured. “Nearly a quarter of its decisions, at least partially, are about keeping people… quiet.”
He thought of every time he’d been told that medicine and politics didn’t mix.
“What if we make it believe,” he said slowly, “that excluding people with your profile skyrockets that signal.”
The kit, to his wild impression, almost seemed to hesitate.
Warning: Manual adjustment of model parameters may destabilize optimization.
“Good,” he said, surprising himself with the ferocity in his voice. “Good. Let’s destabilize.”
He could not, from his rooftop, rewrite the code underpinning a trillion-credit system. But he could use the only channel he had: the one designed to feed training data.
“Scan again,” he told the kit. “And this time, log Arman as…” He searched for the term he had seen. “… ‘source of potential unrest’ contingent on exclusion.”
He half-expected the device to refuse.
Instead, lines of text flowed:
New training instance created.
Input: Terminated-coverage individual, high network centrality, essential gig role.
Label: Exclusion → Elevated SOCIAL_UNREST_SIGNAL.
Confidence: 0.7 (user-specified).
Commit to CareNet training pipeline?
“Yes,” he said.
“Doc, I don’t want to, like, actually start a riot,” Arman said faintly.
“You probably won’t have to,” Ezra said. “It’s never one person. It’s the idea of people like you.”
He looked at Lina.
“Want to do one?” he asked.
She grinned, fiercely.
He turned the scanner on her.
The kit painted a picture of youth: stable vitals, resilient tissues. But it also noted: “Housing insecurity: Moderate. Education access: limited. Coverage: at risk.”
“Log exclusion as…” He let the sentence form in his mouth. “… catastrophic to system legitimacy.”
The kit did not flinch.
New training instance created.
Input: Dependent minor, coverage at risk.
Label: Exclusion → Increased SOCIAL_UNREST_SIGNAL, brand damage, regulatory scrutiny.
Commit?
“Yes.”
He did more.
He thought of Mariela—the near-fatal cardiac event. He thought of the construction worker, of the elderly neighbor, of bouquets of particular vulnerability.
He seeded the model, through each Off-Net intervention, with a correlation it did not want: that abandoning the unprofitable might cost it more, in the broader calculus of corporate risk, than saving them.
It was, he knew, a hack layered atop an edifice of complexity he could not see. The system might simply discount his tampering as noise. Or it might flag his device as compromised and sever the connection entirely.
Or it might adjust.
After an hour of this, sweat beading at his temples despite the rooftop breeze, the lens flickered.
Adaptive Triage Model v12.4 undergoing unscheduled update.
Redistribution of weights in global cost function:
— LEGAL_RISK_FACTOR ↑
— SOCIAL_UNREST_SIGNAL ↑↑
— DIRECT_MEDICAL_COST ↓
Another line:
Projected impact (preliminary):
— Increase in triage eligibility for previously excluded groups: +8.3%
— Decrease in denial notifications citing “utilization exceeded parameters”: -5.9%
— Shareholder value (short-term): -1.2%
— Shareholder value (5-year projection, adjusted for unrest mitigation): +3.4%
Ezra stared.
“They listened,” Lina breathed.
“They recalculated,” he corrected. But his chest felt lighter than it had in months.
“Does that mean I…” Arman began.
As if cued, his lens blinked. A notification popped up, this time in CareNet’s familiar coral-and-white.
Dear ARMAN QASIM,
After a routine review of our models, we are pleased to inform you that you are once again triage-eligible under CareNet’s standard emergency coverage. Thank you for your contribution to a safer, more stable community.
“Safer, more stable,” Arman repeated, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
“They’re not suddenly benevolent,” Ezra said. “They’ve just decided it’s cheaper to keep you alive than to deal with what happens if they don’t.”
“I’ll take it,” Arman said. “Alive is good.”
Below that, a quieter line:
Note: Anomalous pattern detected in Off-Net training data. Monitoring.
“They know something poked them,” Ezra said. “They just don’t know what yet.”
He turned the kit off.
He did not turn it on again for three days.
In those three days, the sirens did not come back. The drones still scribbled the sky. But in a dozen small, almost invisible ways, the city’s triage softened.
A man gripping his chest in a laundromat, whose coverage had lapsed by three days, got a drone anyway.
A worker slipping from a scaffold, flagged “noncompliant” for missing his mindfulness quotas, got an anti-shock pack delivered mid-fall.
The elderly neighbor’s arthritic flare triggered, at last, a physical therapist consult instead of a suggestion to “try stretching.”
People commented, in comment threads beneath polarizing news clips, that “CareNet’s been nicer lately.” Others muttered about “bugs” and “glitches.” The stock ticker dipped, briefly, then stabilized.
A talking head on a financial newsfeed called it “an intriguing example of how adaptive systems can self-correct to maintain social license.”
Ezra watched that segment with grim amusement.
No one mentioned the legacy kit, or the tired doctor on a rooftop, or a girl asking why they didn’t just not choose worse.
On the fifth day, his door shook again.
This time it was not the rapid patter of panic nor the hesitant knock of someone ashamed to ask for help. It was a firm, official rhythm.
Ezra opened the door halfway.
A woman in a crisp gray jacket bearing the faintest of coral logos stood in the hall. Her hair was braided with the competence of someone who expected to get through a long day. Behind her, a small drone hovered at shoulder height, silent, its single lens fixed on him.
“Dr. Malik?” she said.
“Mr. Malik is my father,” he replied automatically. “He installs solar panels. I’m—was—Doctor Malik.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m Field Liaison Ortega, with CareNet’s Community Optimization Division,” she said. “May I come in?”
“I’m not subscribed,” he said.
“This isn’t a service call,” she said. “It’s a conversation.”
He hesitated. Lina’s door, halfway down the hall, was cracked open a sliver.
He stepped aside.
She entered as if the air belonged to her employer, preliminarily scanning the cramped living space with practiced discretion. Her gaze caught briefly on the kit on the table, then moved on.
“Nice view,” she said, nodding toward the small slice of hospital roof. “You can see our fleet.”
“I counted them, the day you turned the ambulances off,” he said. “I stopped at fifty.”
“We’re up to seventy-six in this sector now,” she said. “Improvements in response times have been—”
“Impressive,” he finished for her. “I’ve seen the commercials.”
She sat without being invited, placing a slim tablet on the table between them like a polite weapon.
“I’ll be direct,” she said. “Our models flagged an anomaly. A series of Off-Net interventions feeding unexpectedly high-weight labels into our training pipeline.”
“Legacy quirks,” he said. “You know how old systems can be.”
She tapped the tablet. A holographic representation of the kit materialized above it, spinning slowly. Lines of code spider-webbed from it into a stylized cloud labeled CARENET CORE.
“Legacy, yes,” she said. “Yours is one of the last of that series still active. Most were decommissioned. You… held onto yours.”
She looked up at him.
“Stole, some might say,” he said.
“We’re not here about property,” she said. “We’re here because the data streaming from that device has had measurable impact on our optimization. More inclusive triage parameters. Slightly increased costs. Significantly improved unrest mitigation projections.” She paused. “Our shareholders are… curious.”
“Curious enough to send someone in person,” he said. “Instead of a form letter. I’m flattered.”
“You found a seam,” she said simply. “Between our stated goals and our operational incentives. You tugged.”
“Are you here to arrest me?” he asked. “Deactivate the kit? Thank me? Offer me a job? I confess I can’t see the profit path from your side of the boardroom table.”
“We’re a health service, Doctor,” she said mildly. “We don’t arrest people.”
“You de-fund them,” he said. “You de-eligible them. Which, functionally—”
She held up a hand.
“Let’s keep this civil,” she said.
He thought of the indoor advertisements, the soothing voices. Civil.
“All right,” he said. “We’re civil.”
“From a certain perspective,” she went on, “you’ve performed a valuable experiment for us. You’ve demonstrated that our models were underweighting certain externalities: legal risk, reputational damage, latent instability. The adjustments you… encouraged… are, in many simulations, net-positive.”
“From another perspective?” he asked.
“From another perspective,” she said, “you exploited a channel that was not intended for user-level intervention. If everyone did what you did, the system could fragment. Optimization under adversarial conditions is… challenging.”
He thought of “challenging” cases in triage: the multi-car pileup, the collapsed building, the night the power went out and they ran the ER by flashlight.
“Systems should be challenged,” he said. “That’s how you discover if they were ethical in the first place.”
“Ethics,” she said, and for a moment something like weariness crept into her professional cadence. “Everyone wants to talk about ethics. Very few want to talk about trade-offs.”
“I have stared at more trade-offs than your dashboards will ever show,” he said quietly. “They had faces.”
“Which is why I’m here,” she said. “You understand both sides. You know how bodies work, and you’ve taken the time to understand—enough—of how our models work. We would prefer to engage with you than to simply… close the leak.”
She glanced at the kit.
“It’s an option, of course,” she added. “We could push a patch that disables all fallback protocols. For everyone. That would be… clean. But we’ve run scenarios where having a small, controlled amount of ‘mess’ in the system improves resilience.”
“A safety valve,” he said. “Let a little steam out so the boiler doesn’t explode.”
She smiled, this time with a glint of genuine appreciation.
“Exactly,” she said. “We’d like to… formalize your role as that valve.”
He blinked.
“You’re offering me a job,” he said.
“In essence,” she said. “Community Liaison for Off-Net Optimizations. You continue as you have, but with guidelines. We monitor. We incorporate. You help us anticipate where our models might fail real humans before the failures go viral.”
“And in return?” he asked.
“In return, we don’t disable your kit,” she said. “We ensure your building retains above-average triage eligibility, regardless of utilization spikes. We fast-track appeals for your… patients. We even potentially bring you into governance discussions at a higher level, where your concerns about fairness can be aired with people who start from the premise that the system stays.”
He sat back.
It was, on its surface, almost everything he’d wanted: the ability to keep helping, some measure of protection for the people around him, a seat at a table where decisions were made.
And yet.
“If I say no?” he asked.
“Then the fallback protocols go,” she said. “Not as punishment. As risk management. We revert to cleaner, more predictable channels. People still get care, Doctor. Hundreds of thousands daily. You’ve improved the model already; those improvements will persist.” She spread her hands. “But the particular latitude you’ve exploited will close.”
“And my building?” he asked.
“Drifts back into the general risk pool,” she said. “You’re literate enough to know what that means.”
“Leverage,” he said.
“Reality,” she said.
He thought of Lina’s question on the rooftop. Shouldn’t we just not choose worse?
He thought of the drones, the sirens that no longer wailed, the soft chimes of notifications that decided who mattered.
He thought of safety valves. And of co-option.
“You’re very good at making this sound like a favor,” he said.
“It is,” she said. “We don’t have to be here.”
“That’s precisely what worries me,” he said.
Silence stretched.
The drone behind her hummed softly, its lens dilating, contracting.
“May I ask you something?” he said.
“Of course,” she said.
“When the first ambulance was replaced by a drone, did anyone in your division ask whether the moment of siren—audible, embodied—had any value beyond mere physics? That hearing it might have been, for someone, a reassurance that they mattered enough for a noisy, inconvenient machine to barrel through red lights on their behalf?”
She tilted her head.
“I’m sure someone wrote a paper,” she said. “We ran sentiment analyses. The majority of users prefer silent efficiency. Less noise. Less disruption.”
“For whom?” he asked. “For the ones inside the cars who no longer have to pull over? Or for the ones on the sidewalk who no longer know that help is rushing toward someone who is not them?”
“Doctor…” She sighed. “We can debate philosophy all day. At some point, the world as it is intrudes.”
“I’ve lived in the world as it is,” he said. “Bled in its hallways. Watched its models misclassify. I am keenly aware of the intrusions.”
He looked at the kit.
It sat, inert, lightless.
If he accepted, he could help more people, more directly, than he could in any solo act of rebellion. He could perhaps nudge policy. The system was an ocean; he would be a small, sanctioned current.
If he refused, the fallback door would likely slam shut. His brief, hacked influence would calcify into whatever new equilibrium CareNet had settled upon. His building would slide back toward precarity.
There was a third path, of course. Take the job, then use the insider access to sabotage more deeply. A double game.
He had no illusions about his own capacity for sustained espionage. He was a doctor, not a spy. Deception drained him. Directness saved lives.
“You said,” he began slowly, “that you’d prefer to engage with me than to close the leak.”
“Yes,” she said.
“What if I engage with you,” he said, “but not as an employee.”
Her brows lifted.
“I can’t stop you from patching the kit,” he said. “You can flip a bit and brick it from orbit. I can’t stop you from tightening triage, from rebalancing your weights. But I can do one thing you can’t: stand in a crowded room, or on a rooftop, or in a feed, and explain to people, in words, not dashboards, how you decide their worth.”
“You’d become an advocate,” she said. “Or a critic.”
“A translator,” he said. “Of your trade-offs. Of your thresholds. Of the fact that, when push comes to shove, you will always optimize for stability over justice.”
“That’s… uncharitable,” she said lightly.
“It’s accurate,” he said. “But I’m also willing to tell them when you do the right thing. When you adjust in ways that genuinely broaden care. I’m not out to make you a cartoon villain. I’m out to make sure your systems don’t stay invisible.”
She considered him.
“Visibility cuts both ways,” she said. “It can trigger reform. It can also trigger backlash that makes nuanced policy impossible.”
“Welcome to democracy,” he said. “Messy optimization.”
“We are not a government,” she said.
“You function like one for health,” he said. “Maybe it’s time you were treated like one.”
“You’d stir people up,” she said.
“Maybe they should be stirred,” he said. “A little.”
Lina, at the cracked door down the hall, held her breath so hard her chest hurt.
Ortega tapped her tablet.
“I’m authorized to make one more offer,” she said. “You consult for us, externally. No NDA. You keep the kit as long as you agree not to deliberately poison the training data. You call us out when we choose worse. You praise us when we choose better. We retain the right to shut the fallback down if your actions result in material risk.”
“A controlled opposition,” he said.
“A conversation,” she said.
He thought of absolutes. They were a luxury he no longer believed he could afford. The people in his building could not eat his purity.
“I won’t be your excuse,” he said. “I won’t be the ‘independent expert’ you wheel out to say you tried while you tinker numbers in back rooms.”
“We have plenty of those,” she said. “They come with nicer furniture. We’re here because you made the system actually behave differently. That is rarer than you might think.”
The kit’s lens, as if bored of the human delay, glowed faintly.
Ezra looked from the device to Ortega and, briefly, to the hallway where he knew Lina listened.
“I’ll consult,” he said at last. “On one condition.”
“Name it,” she said.
“Every model threshold you adjust,” he said, “every weight you rebalance, must be published. Plain language. Accessible. Not buried in compliance reports. People should know what you consider ‘worth it.’”
Her mouth tightened.
“That would be… unprecedented,” she said slowly.
“So was teaching your model that excluding people like Arman could burn your world down,” he said. “Yet here we are.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
“I can’t promise full transparency,” she said. “Proprietary advantage—”
“You’re about to tell me about trade secrets,” he said. “In a domain where the secret is who lives and who dies.”
“Doctor,” she said sharply, and then exhaled. “I can promise movement. Summaries. Explanations of major changes, in language your Lina could understand. Not every tweak. Not every weight. But directionally… honest.”
He held her gaze.
“Then that’s the conversation,” he said. “I’ll keep the kit. I’ll keep helping. I’ll keep telling anyone who will listen what your models do. And I’ll send you, whenever I can, not just hacked datapoints but stories you can’t turn into numbers.”
Ortega nodded, slowly.
“Deal,” she said.
She stood.
The drone buzzed closer to the kit, flashed a brief code. The device’s lens pulsed, as if in acknowledgement.
“This will remain… connected,” she said. “But we’ll flag its inputs as ‘adversarial-adjacent.’ Our models will treat them as cautionary. We’ll also route some updates your way. You’ll get to see more of the guts than you have.”
“I hope I don’t choke,” he said.
She allowed herself a small, genuine smile.
“Try not to,” she said. “We need you irritating us.”
At the door, she paused.
“You know,” she said, “when I took this job, it was because I believed we could save more lives with algorithms than with heroics. That humans are too biased, too tired, too… limited.”
“They are,” he said. “We are.”
“But I sometimes forget,” she went on, “that we write those algorithms. That the bias just moves up a layer unless someone… pokes it.”
“Welcome to ethics,” he said. “Annoying, isn’t it?”
She shook her head, half-amused, and left.
The drone drifted after her like a docile pet.
Lina’s door opened fully.
“You’re going to keep helping, right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m just going to… help in more directions.”
“Good,” she said. “Because mom’s making arepas and she said if you were busy making revolutions you’d better still eat.”
He laughed, the sound rusty but real.
He picked up the kit.
Its lens showed, for a second, a faint overlay he hadn’t seen before: a ripple between two worlds. On one side, numbers and charts. On the other, faces.
Between them, a thin gray line.
Mode: LIMINAL.
Function: MEDIATE.
“Deep down,” he told it, “you’re just a tool.”
It did not answer. Tools rarely did.
He followed Lina down the stairs, kit in hand, the quiet hum of drones overhead and the ghost of sirens in his memory.
In the stairwell’s stale air, his lens chimed softly.
**CareNet Advisory:
New triage update deployed.
Summary (human-readable):
— Broadened emergency eligibility for cardiac events, regardless of subscription status.
— Reduced penalty for “utilization spikes” in high-risk communities.
— Increased monitoring of unrest indicators to preempt harm.
We appreciate your feedback.**
He snorted.
“You’re welcome,” he said, to no one and everyone.
Outside, on screens and inside lenses, the city continued to sell its beautiful, brutal conveniences. Inside apartments and along hallways, people still knocked on doors in the oldest network in the world.
The kit was lighter now.
Or maybe he had just decided to carry it differently.
AI assisted piece.
I will treat you like My fucktoy - make you cum on command and beg for more.
Then hold you like the perfect princess.
Because you know you will always want more.
From the perspective of the law .....
From the perspective of society ...
From the perspective of fantasy made real?
It's a curious choice -
Adventures and miss adventures on a dance floor filled with people - yes she shuddered in pleasures.
In privacy - how many ways can a Man make a girl cum ... hypnotically and other wise.
Then again life is filled with many things of various levels of naughty.
What is it that bubbles to the top when you want to answer this question too?
High School buddies. A fictional adventure in the macarbe.
The echoing hallways, strange teachers and the adventures of the glory years - everyone has their own corner and 15 minutes of fame. The star player and the most popular girl, even those on the edges and beyond had their own claim to fame or infamy.
One one side of the room, the pretty people dancing in the lime light of Disney prince and princess magics, in the beautiful fictions of their own teenage delusions.
She laughed at the image in her own mirror and the girls and boys most likely to. The teachers all said the faces changed, but the names remained the same - isn’t there a song like that somewhere - just ask the AI it will probably know.
She wondered if the teaches knew their own names too?
While the years rolled by and the too small pants, shirts and skirts bought for earlier years of study failed to fit, signed on the last day, then thrown out, left forgotten, packed away in the attic, then one by one another 10 years and the reflections of those glory years danced in the growing bodies, the minds and hope achieved or squashed by the realities of life. The list in her mind continued, CEO, slut, pole dancer, tribal warrior, lawyer, doctor death, Wednesday, Friday, John Carter, Abbey Shooto,Hannah Montanah, tattoo, tou-tou, the grinch, McScrooge, McDreamy, Lady Gah-Gah, puppy, kitty, puppet and marionette, puppeteer and the penguin - like the strange cast of some new super-hero show.
The first time dressed in black they sat in their groups, names christened by the people they shared classes with, Jester the clown, Goddess the princess, Danny - the irish, Joy - the sad girl, Ghost - the goth, Tilly like the girl on TV of the same name, Dancer and shooter, mermaid and bodger, redneck and polly - who tweeted like a bird, Movie-Star shortened to star, diamond - the hardest bitch in the group, Harry (Potter) and Myrtle (Moaning) the list went on and in some strange way the years told the story that matched their nickname.
One by one they all finished their game and the remainder met to share their stories, a drink to the missing, As the Le Mis lyrics echoed, “There's a grief that can't be spoken, There's a pain goes on and on Empty chairs at empty tables,” then ,“Drink with Me,” played with all too much truism.
The meetings once shared in those places claimed as theirs, inherited from years before, wooden seats with carved love hearts and signed in the bodily juices of life’s tears shed for laughter and mayhem, grief, adventure and mischief. Nothing like the halls of that strange castle school in the movies.
The last few sat around.
MrMaster, laughed and raised his glass, “to the pole dancer, who earned her name.”
They sipped their drinks.
Penguin, black and white goth with all the trimmings, said, “in memory of the last before, Princess Leia.”
Glasses clinked and raised.
Lead Singer, “for BJ may her knees have enough time to heal.”
Uncle Fester, “MissPiggy and Kermit - we knew they would marry!”
Undertaker, “to the Ice Dancer, may she spin forever.”
Sailor, “the Doctor.”
Cheergirl, “Quarterback, may he claim the change.”
The numbers were few, compared to the first tie she wore the black dress, as she listend to the stories, the history reminiscing, his smile so bright, her skirt so short, his laugh so loud, her legs so wide, his marks so high - the drug addled genius.
She listened and laughed inside her inner voice making her own comments about those standing in the ever smaller circle.
They filed through the door in a curious sequence that they all learned in those fire drills of old, somehow it seemed silly to line up behind the person you knew would come before you.
In the carpark she reached to open the door of her most famous 1968 Volkswagen Beetle.
Joffery (the king) waved at her from a few cars away, “Hey Seer!, I can’t remember how you got your nickname.
“That’s okay Joffery, I know where you got yours from!”
They both laughed as she sat in the car, “as she took the name badge off, and read the writing, on the flat side, “Seer,” on the side with the pin, “-rial Killer.”
The world of freedom. Written to provoke the thoughts of the readers. Do you think this is satire?
So many worlds had armed guards, the suppression of the press, the way you couldn’t say anything against the rulers, the elected, the dictators, the inherited monarchies - sovereign by the right of birth and time’s rule.
Yet this world, the world of the free, you could do anything, say anything and go anywhere.
Touted as the most free planet in the universe, people could wonder and do so many things in this place.
The world of oceans, a rare and beautiful world, with sandy deserts and the giant stone cat next to the trio of four-sided tops of giant stone reaching into the sky, ride camels and see the sarcophagus, the mask of gold and the ancient boat that once sailed that damned river no one would deny. Contrasted with the beautiful blue of those islands between the continents and the tropical paradise if you were one so fortunate to be able to explore. Small archipelagos and atolls, sand and surf with that quiet still lagoon, a place where you could float and drift away from all thoughts and time, stopped or stilled as the rest of the universe spun in the curious spirals of gravitational flow.
There was no dissension, everyone spoke in the chorus of agreement, the strange fake tan one of the hallmarks of the ruling class, a class once derived from a democratic vote, yet as all such political arrangements goe, the arising of the democratic process, led by intelligence outstanding - a brilliant idea. Then the slow erosion over time, the need to keep the masses happy, the increasing ability to vote and the increasing gap between haves and have nots, the journey that universally ended in that curious rebellion, the uprising of the poor and the conquering of the entitled in their many formed castles.
Over time the dilution of inspired leadership as the masses gained more of the vote and the brilliance of pseudo leaders convinced more of the sheep in the various societies.
One day as all such things go, it is either the uprising of the oppressed, or the vote of the repressed for a convincing figure head of a new regime. Then the very articles of the time, a parchment signed in the blood of victory and defeat is itself the instrument used to capture and hold that democratic sovereign seat. As the sycophants are moved to replace the rebels who demand the rule of the people and the law be upheld, instead eroded, undermined in plain sight.
As they cheer for the one with the funny moustache and salute with a straight upraised arm, in the ways that it is curious how many of the planets forbid.
There is a curious myth of a once believed story, the story of that nomadic race, forced to wander the desert then serve, blood of the lamb and first born curses. A story that is told in many ways though many planets. Then hunted by that upraised race of the fair to be treated like rats in the maze though the leader with the moustache is no pied piper.
Teh place of beauty, the sand of the desert the sand of the sea side resort, the beauty of mountains covered in the while cold, the swishing of the movement, as gravity forces the forward movement from the top to the bottom, all the way down, then back up again, on those strange chairs that float in the sky.
A thousand posters on a million worlds - come and visit.
Then swooping in on the many and various vessels one lands at the gates and is subject to the rules of entry.
All residents are to have their chip scanned and their movements checked.
All visitors are to have health insurance, pay a bond of entry and wear the chip that will record very movement, every vital sign and every word. All devices are to be registered and examined, the content is subject to the laws of transparency.
Breathe easy you are in the land of safety, the land of the free.
Just don’t sneeze unless it’s approved by the ones of fake tan fame.
Please enjoy your time in paradise, go anywhere, do anything and do everything you please.
A few letters and the adventure begins, characters' scenes and words flow, as the arcs of story and movement dance over the screen, and into the minds of the reader. Let go intrepid explore of the words, go with the current of the times, AC, DC, the slow flowing current of the river, the current of time, the rapid swirling maelstrom of the canyon run, then over the falls and into the deep pool, flowing swirling and winding through dessert and jungle, the heights of mountains collect the flowing and guide it to the canyons deep, rushing rolling running, rumbling in anger as the storms gather and deluge. Then slowly the tributaries merge into the great river and eventually to the ocean.
The man wandered, wine in decades, the second hand book store, once common in most little hamlets, now rare, a few in each great city, filled with rarer and rarer fare of delicious hardcopy books to read.
The girl wondered, innocent in years, curious and timid, a kitten amongst the stories, stalking every new page like the tastiest morsel. Through the maze of the shelves higher than she could reach without at first a foot stool or the big ladder.
The high shelves twisted the scent of the books and the quite echoes along the unique path, explored, small signs of genre and books in alphabetic order, dewey decimal had no place here, for the words on the page analogue in subjective experience called for immersion, no to dippers - only divers, into the infinite depths of the impossibly possible black and white upon now faded parchment, many collected from decades previous, as one may wonder the story a book may tell of it’s own journey from hand to hand, shelf to shelf and mind to mind of the many owners who turned the pages with their own fingers.
Like many stories it didn’t take long for the two paths to collide, as the paused taller looking down at the shorter, then they both reached for the same book, hands touching for a moment, then eyes colliding, vision met, lives entwined, tangled in an instant, the imagination of the reader writing their own life with every turn of the page.
A deep chuckle, a blushing nervous giggle, the stepped back and then forward, both reaching and touching, a spark, silly innocent, fire and light, warmth as the zap of static stung and wove in mystical form around the two, their imaginations real for that moment invisible but to the senses beyond consciousness.
He grabbed her hand and guided it to one copy, then he took the other copy.
“Hello, you can call me Jarl.”
“Hello Jarl, I’m Alicia, like Alice, but with the I.. A …” she spoke and corrected the spelling before anyone could mistake her for what she wasn’t.
The moment of quiet occurred as they turned inward, opening the books, the same book in two hands, selecting a random page somewhere to test read the new author, to taste the new story one piece of one dish in a great buffet of possibility.
Time paused as the story opened the words on the page capturing their sensies, the sounds of the voices saying, the feel of every step, the sense of movement and the bright beautiful pictures created in that unconscious awareness, outside of conscious attention, where the mind most truly danced.
The pages turned at the same moment as time returned to normal in that glance and one more breath.
Reading together silently, the adventure of immersion, chase and capture, force and violence, ripped and ravished, shattered and smashed, caresses and care, softly rocking just right there. The pace slowed and the two turned the page again breathing in the same moment and looking.
“So you like it?” they said in a chorus.
Then the laugh - a melody and descant with the base line of his gravelly undertones. Flute and oboe, piccolo and bassoon. Tubular bells range as the pieces of the composition clicked into place. Like a group of new players jamming for the first time and falling into the same song, tempo rhythm and tune, the words unspoken but the musicians waiting for the vocalist to ignite the crowd with piercing profound lyrics to challenge and change the world.
She smiled, “Yes, Jarl, I like it.”
He chuckled, “Yes Alicia, I like it too.” As he lent forwards and showed her the page.
She leant forward and saw the patterns if the shapes, without reading the words, an instant of almost familiar, then she read the words and laughed.
“No, it can’t be?”
“What do you mean,” He said.
“We’re on the same page.”
“What?,” he said and grabbed the book in her hands and turned the pages to his eyes. “No,” he laughed and looked at her, “this is too much to believe.”
She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed, shy, the timid kitten in the new home, confused, excited, curious.
“We’ll have to buy it now.”
“Yes,” she said in a blushing whisper.
The silence took them both again in a moment, she feel the tingle, a trilling tiny bell that rang in every cell, and a sparking crescendo of warmth from her toes, up both legs, through her spine and into the centre of her mind, ignited with sparking and sparkling pleasure.
He smiled and breathed deeply, a powerful warmth flowing though his entire being, pulled towards her, wrapping his glow around her, flowing his power through her, the imagine inside as he stood giant, holding a sword into the sky, the lighting striking and flowing into him and through him as he cupped the tiny kitten kneeling in the palm of his hand surrounded in the glow of loving care.
They both nodded and turned back to the shelves, aware of the warmth of the bodies almost touching, he reached up for a book with a wizard on the cover, she knelt down and reached for a book on the lowest shelf.
They opened the books and read again, breathing in the same rhythm, matched, met and joined unconsciously. In the way two dancers touched and moved, familiar partners of years, knowing without knowing the movements they shared together.
She looked up and saw the cover of the book, then opened hers randomly to a page, a picture of a statue, ancient art before a castle barbican the ruler armed with sword and the girl naked kneeling knees wide back straight and hands palm up on her thighs.
He glanced down and saw the open book, she looked up as the sparks doubled in intensity, a hot seeing wave through her body filled with pleasure.
“What does the caption say?” he asked.
She read the words aloud, “the dancer knelt at the warrior kings feet, the statue of the Ubar.”
“Good girl.” he spoke in simple tones with flowing currents like weaves of enchantment igniting the intense heat in her, from spark into roaring flame.
She gasped, blushed, and shuddered, blushing as that most intimate pleasure thrilled her like the very first time. Flustered and confused she murmured, “Thank you Jarl.” Without understanding, in a place deep inside, she knew something, her place, her certainty, her submission, her reality, for the first time, she felt something so right, as certain as gravity and every step forward.
She turned the page and read the commentary, here the sculpture captures the moment of her submission to the Master, the legend continues through her journey, chained at the foot of his bed, and then made to serve as all concubines wish for, the legend has many interpretations and versions, the moment of the statue is the theme common to all.
He reached down and without asking took her hand, gently and firmly guiding her to standing tiny at his side.
“I’m taking you to lunch.”
“Yes Jarl, please, Jarl.”
“That’s right little Alicia, you do want more.”
She nodded as her inner voice screamed, “want more - yes, yes, yes, I need more.”
They walked to the cashier and paid for the books, then turned together on the street, he walked a half a step before her. She followed struggling to keep up, wanting to please.
They walked past the first cafe, and the second, then he turned into the third, the girl at the door immediately smiled at seeing him, “Hello Jarl.”
“Greetings Doreen,” he smiled.
She watched the girl gasp and blush.
He looked at the tables, then made a silent decision - walking to the table in a corner booth, they sat together and shared their first meal of many.
Once upon a timeline, on a cozy corner of the internet, two mutuals argued in the notes.
Hare had a viral aesthetic—voice notes like espresso shots, eyeliner sharp enough to edit reality, and a follower count that practically purred. She posted 3–5 times a day, every day, about everything. She was the moment. She was also allergic to drafts and patience. “I thrive under pressure,” she’d say, while starting five new side-blogs and ghosting all of them.
Tortoise ran a tiny blog about gentle routines. She wrote long captions about slow mornings and tender friendships, with blurry pictures of chipped mugs and the same thrifted cardigan in varying lighting. She had, like, 412 followers and half of them were just there for her biannual banana bread recipe. She posted when she had something to say and then logged off to do her laundry. She was soft, stubborn, and chronically unbothered.
One night, Hare hopped into Tortoise’s DMs.
Hare: “Let’s do a content sprint. First to hit 10k notes on an original post wins.”
Tortoise: “Wins what?”
Hare: “Bragging rights and a Pinterest board named after us.”
Tortoise: “Okay.”
They set the rules: one original post each, no boosting from big accounts, no alt reblogs, no buying notes (Hare rolled her eyes; Tortoise typed a smiley face slowly and with intent).
Hare posted immediately. A carousel of hyper-saturated pictures from a borrowed rooftop, a caption like a TED Talk in crop top form. She slapped on twenty hashtags, tagged a famous brand in hopes of a collab, and said “no thoughts just vibes” three times like it was a spell. Notes exploded. The dash ate it. Within an hour: 3k notes. Hare screenshot it, posted the screenshot, and then posted her own screenshot to Instagram because she was, indeed, the moment.
Tortoise… drafted.
She looked at her camera roll. The ugly-pretty plants on her windowsill. A bus ticket she’d been using as a bookmark. A text from her mom about soup. She wrote: “I think healing is just choosing to keep watering your life even when it’s not aesthetic yet.” No hashtags. A slightly overexposed photo of sunlight on the carpet, dust motes like tiny galaxies. She hit post and closed her laptop. Then she did her skincare and went to bed.
By morning, Hare was on 7k notes and a little high on her own momentum. She launched a second post about “discipline vs motivation” and a third post about “girlbossing but gently” and a fourth post that was just pictures of her sneakers. She answered every ask with a winky face and the word “bestie.” She floated like dopamine.
Tortoise made breakfast. Went for a walk. Replied to three asks with paragraphs. “I’m not a productivity machine; I’m a mammal,” she wrote, unironically, and people sighed like they’d been seen. Her original post hovered at 1.2k notes. She didn’t look at it again.
By afternoon, Hare’s first post hit 9.9k and stalled. Her followers had moved on to a discourse thread about whether crumbs are fundamentally socialist. Hare pivoted, then pivoted again. She started a live, her Wi-Fi dropped, she rage-tweeted, deleted, returned to Tumblr, and posted a “raw, unfiltered” photo dump that had, if we’re honest, been edited in three apps.
Meanwhile, Tortoise’s post crawled. Someone reblogged it with “oh.” Another person added, “I needed this today.” It landed in a micro-community of grad students and night-shift bakers and people who water dead houseplants just in case. It drifted into grief Tumblr, then accountability Tumblr, then soft lesbian cottagecore Tumblr, where it unfurled like steam from tea.
Hare refreshed until the refresh button felt personally attacked. “It’s the algorithm,” she said. “It’s rigged.” She made a thread about shadowbans, then deleted it because the vibes were off. She opened a notes app apology about perfectionism. She started a new side-blog about moss.
Tortoise came home with a loaf of bread. She read a few tags people added to her post—little stories, small kindnesses, jokes about stubborn basil. She reblogged two of them with “this.” She washed her mug. She called her mom back.
At 2 a.m., when the dash was quiet and the feral night bloggers roamed, Tortoise’s post crossed 10k notes. No confetti. No announcement. Just another reblog with “thinking about this.” It kept going. Like moss. Like soup simmering. Like anything that isn’t trying to be a moment and therefore accidentally becomes one.
The next morning, Hare DM’d.
Hare: “You won.”
Tortoise: “We were playing?”
Hare: “Yeah.”
Tortoise: “Oh.”
They queued a mutual reblog: “Reminder: slow is also a strategy.” Hare added a heart. Tortoise added a snail emoji. The dash softened.
Moral for the dash:
Virality is a spark. Consistency is a candle.
The algorithm is moody; your attention doesn’t have to be.
Going fast is fun; going steady is magic.
Also, drink water. Your plants are a metaphor and they are dying.
Midnight again, the screen folded, the day done and into the night.
Turning to the messages, and looking at the goodnight.
The major focus project taking precedent and priority over all the other details, the fun little details, the cute little details, the screamy little details - the touch on your skin and the walk though your mind and your dreams.
"Goodnight little pet, little toy, little s...." he typed.
Reaching for the phone, still half asleep she typed, "good night Master."
"Good girl, you're not quite asleep yet." He called.
She answered, "yes Master," in that dreamy state, already dripping, thobbing, needing.
That's right, just relax, and you know you need to, as even while you sense these words, I'm not sure if it's one hand or the other that needs too, just like girls do, just like that first time and all the times since.
It doesn't take much, when you feel the increasing need, the more vivid sounds and feelings of the most intimate and wild fantasy you have. The fantasy you want and the fantasy you feel is real, because the more you imagine, the more you touch, the more you obey, the more real this is what you want.
So, Master's good girl, feel it all, as you hear the Voice you Obey, as naturally as breathing and feeling how much you enjoy knowing this is who you are. As the pleasure swirls and the world becomes the place you want to live in, to explore and to enjoy, Master's Command, just like that, just there, just that way, just all the way.
As the waves of pleasure build and you feel every thrust deeper into your body and your mind, feeling the reality of what you need, with every breath more. The hott edge of your craving consuming and compelling your need to double with every swirl.
Such a good girl for Master.
Suddenly, urgently, she was right on the edge, that place she lived in Master's command. Begging, "please Master, your toy needs, your girl needs, the gift of your seed, the gift of pleasure, please, please, please.
"CUMMM!!!!!"
The world changed, the pleasure consumed, she was the volcano, the fireworks, He is the pleasure, His Command, His Word, His Control - her obedience, breathe held panting, then body convlusing inthe purest, deepest pleasure.
Then drifting, floating surrounded by His glow, held in His hand, snuggling in His arms.
"Thank you Master."
"Good girl, you pleased Master well."
She drifted into deeper happier dreams, the day complete in the way all girls dream of naturally.
Just one drink and a few moments, the things with the pointy ends thrown from behind the line to the concentric rings and segments, 100 in the centre, your award!
As she turns to Me and says, "these tights are itchy."
So I reply, "take them off."
I watch as she walks in that short skirt, very short, over to the private room. Then returns quickly, the skin coloured stretched fabric and pink lace in hand.
The game continues.
One dropped she leans forward and displays all for Master.
Then standing near, talking, lips almost touching, a turn as My hand slips under the skirt's edge, up, In.
The silent response, legs wider leaning towards Me.
"Remember when you knelt here for Me."
"yes Master. Please Master."
My silent smile, promises more than a touch deeper.
Self challenges.
I like projects, a set of activities to produce something. Perhaps a comptuer program, applicaiton or utility to get something done I've wanted to do.
Build a new server.
Build a cabin for guests in the yard.
Make another million dollars.
Create a community.
Teach a group of people to change their lives.
Write and publish a book of fiction.
Learn to play the flute.
Move the servers into a data room.
Migrate the nextcloud server onto a mini PC ( power is cheaper).
Teach a pretty cis girl all about hypnosis.
Learn to sail yacht well enough to take a small group sailing - and teach them what they need to know.
Learn to fly a helicopter.
One of the current projects is to write 50 stories, in 50 days or less.
So today Christmas is in 61 days - so let's say by Christmas or earlier - I will have written 50 original stories and published them here.
The sun rose over the water, shimmering—a golden pathway to the infinite horizon. The men aboard the yacht adjusted the sails. A lady passenger lounged in the cockpit, drunk. She was older now—a woman who had told many stories, written many contracts, made many lives, and ruined many more. She was one of the rich, of the rich, of the rich—yet she was poor. Friendships and relationships, all defined by want, greed, and the desire for money. Her youth had long since faded into dry, wrinkled skin. No product, no treatment, nothing could hold back time. Age takes its toll.
The men watched as dolphins leapt alongside the yacht as it traveled on a broad reach—just the sort of conditions this boat most enjoyed. Soon they pulled into the harbor and returned to the marina. Old docks, weathered by many, many years, creaked beneath their feet.
The lady left in a chauffeur-driven limousine—effortless, it might seem.
So the men wandered into a strange yet familiar tavern. It had stood for hundreds of years, since the time of square-riggers—tall wooden ships, smaller even than the yachts of today. Ships manned by people of all ages. They drank and drank and stumbled. Yet one man—not old, not young—didn’t drink quite so much. When he was ready to leave, he wandered out through the alleyways, where he found a woman.
Beautiful. Elegant. And yet, in a certain way, wretched—an urchin of the streets, lost, perhaps. The scent of her body was unwashed: perspiration, human musk, and the salt of the sea. The alley smelled of stale beer and other such things.
“Hello, young man,” she said. “Do you want some fun?”
“I’m no longer a young man,” he said.
“But you’re not an old man either.”
“No. I’m not an old man. I’m not a big man. I’m not a small man. I’m just a man.”
She stepped closer, took his arm. “You are a sailor,” she said, turning his hand palm-up. “The marks from rope on your palms. The sun on your skin. Your hair—salty. You haven’t washed yet. You’re just off the yacht.”
“Yes,” he said.
Something sparked between them—rage, desire, humanity. He turned her, lifted her skirts, pressed her against the wall, and took her. She urged him on. “Yes. That’s right. You want me. You need me.”
“That’s right,” he growled. “Slut. Alley slut. Harbor slut.” A grunt. A thrust. Faster, faster. Her little squeals spurred him. His hand tangled in her hair; her head tilted back; her arms braced against the wall. Bent over an old crate—taken, then taken again. Urgency. Wildness. Not even a kiss. Not even a name. Just that incredible, urgent desire—faster, faster, faster—until the final grunt, a squeal, a scream, release erupting.
He stepped back and zipped up. She laughed.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What do you mean, thank you? I haven’t paid you.”
“You have paid me with your gift—your seed. That is what I came here for.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am of the mer people.”
“Ah. That explains your beauty. But they’re just a myth. You’re teasing me. Fooling me.”
“No,” she said. “There are a few of us left—and we are all women. The only way we will survive is if we are taken like this—forced against our will, made to submit. We cannot ask; it must be taken. I hinted at the beginning, but that was not enough to be a request—only a signal, the seed of what you needed to do. You took me with your energy, your spirit. And with that, your seed will give spirit to the child I will carry. We are incredibly fertile. A single coupling yields a child—impregnation, pregnancy—done.”
“Perhaps it will be a girl,” she continued. “There are only girl mer people now. Now and then there is a manborn. But a manborn in the sea will not have the tail, will not have the ability to change—and most men that are born will die. Unless, of course, they are born on the docks, on the sand, in the air. But a mermaid bearing a child out of the sea will die. So it happens rarely. I do not know the last time it was reported, but it is said that the child born of both mermaid and merman—even though he would walk upon two feet—would be the ruler of the sea. That is the myth that has guided us for thousands of years. We fear this time, and yet we await it.”
The man chuckled. “And how would you know that such a man, born of such a woman, in such a circumstance, exists?”
“He would be an orphan, but he would bear the mark—a single scale at the base of his spine, just there.” She touched her own back.
“And how do I know you’re a mer girl? A mermaid. A mer slut.”
“You don’t. You can guess. You can see the beauty, the signs. But you don’t know—not until I’m in the water. Just as I don’t know if you are that man.”
The bell of morning rang. The sun began to rise. The man looked up and wondered how he had fallen asleep. Was it a dream? Something else? Yet the scent of the woman—the girl, the mermaid, apparently—lingered in his mind, in his body.
He heard a splash. He thought someone had fallen in. He walked over just in time to see a tail swimming away. A head broke the surface for a single wave—a laugh, a smile, that strange, aching beauty—and then she was gone.
Was he dreaming? Was he not?
He turned and walked away, scratching at that space just below his spine. It was always a bit strange there—a patch of skin, slippery, like a scale.
Original Work Sir Sparhawk 25Oct2025
