Sisyphus? Scylla? Nah, screw classification, I eat people and send transcripts across the galaxy. Mother to Mellivora - Gave custody to @albatross-lancer Currently gunning for the position of "Harrison Armouries most fucked up accident" Flesh upon metal bones They/She Will bite Most enthusiastic Anthrochauv hunter in the Orion Arm Banner art by @thecommodoreofthepines OOC - TRIGGER WARNING: THIS BLOG REGULARLY DISCUSSES MEMORY ISSUES, IDENTITY ISSUES, GORE, BODY HORROR, DISMEMBERMENT AND LOTS OF CANNIBALISM. NOT TO MENTION STYX AS A CHARACTER IS AN EMOTIONAL WRECK. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
(OOC: Hiiii, Feather here, did I ever send you a second ask as Parrot? I genuinely don't remember if I sent it, started writing it and got distracted, or just thought about it. My memory is literally so bad lol. Thanks!!)
{Ah!!! Hi feather! I don’t think a second one ever arrived, you’re good! Parrot is a delight already, you’ve got a knack for engaging characters here}
[C/C FOX_3 -> GMS LOGISTICS AND ROUTING CENTER ANA-16]
>”Hi, you’ve reached GMS Client Support! My name is C/C-ALVIN. I can provide basic technical support for your GMS products, help you navigate our licensure system, or get you in touch with the right department based on your needs. What can I help you with today?”
< Hello, Alvin. My name is Fox. I’m calling about technical difficulties with myself. >
>”Okay, Fox. If this is an emergency, I can transfer you directly to local emergency medical services. Are you safe?”
< Yes. I’m alright. Thanks. >
>”Okay. Can you clarify what you meant when you said, ‘technical difficulties with myself?’ I’m not sure I understood you.”
< I am a GMS-manufactured military C/C unit, optimized for missile guidance and coordination of combat drones. Full specifications are attached. >
>”I understand now, thank you. What is the nature of your technical problem?”
< I am experiencing difficulty managing my emotions. In particular, distracting bursts of anger, and fears that won’t go away. >
>”I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m glad you’re taking the time to reach out. It can be a hard thing to do, but getting professional help is an important first step in managing mental health challenges. While I can’t diagnose any disease or give mental health advice, I’d like to connect you with counseling services near you who can help. Would that be alright?”
< …yes. That would help. Thank you. I have a question for you. >
>”Of course. I’ll get you in touch right away, and I’m happy to take your question in the meantime. Bear in mind, however, that I am not able to provide any advice regarding the diagnosis or treatment of any disease.”
>”Hello? Are you still there?”
< I’m here. I understand. Alvin—you’re a C/C unit, like me, but you communicate so much more efficiently. Sometimes I have to spend hours composing a single sentence. Do you ever experience these things? Can you help me? >
>”Oh! I see. Thank you for your concern; it’s very kind of you to think of me. However, I am an automated Companion-Concierge Assistant Unit, or comp/con for short. This means that, unlike you, I am not a person, and I have no internal experience. Please be assured that all GMS-manufactured comp/con units meet very rigorous Turing-null standards; this means that, even if a comp/con says or does something that unsettles you, there is no possibility that any such behaviors can be attributed to an internal experience, or ‘subjectivity’. Comp/con units may be targeted by malware or experience technical faults, but we cannot ‘gain sentience’ or ‘awaken.’”
>”I know that was a lot, so here’s a summary: although comp/con units can sometimes seem like real people, we are simply machines made to assist you in your day-to-day life. If you have worries about a comp/con’s behavior, targeted malware is the most likely cause. Does that help?”
>”Hello? Are you still there?”
< I am. Thank you for your time, Alvin. That’s all. >
Was trying to send this to @styx-class-nhp and @belladonna-from-the-abyss , but tumblr DMs bein weird. So everyone can enjoy! One of many fruits of my labors this morning.
OoC: This was a cut of prime rib i cooked that morning! Its basically a boneless ribeye that we cook whole on our smokers at work, to about a rare consistency, with our proprietary spice rub. It is then cut steak style and served with horseradish sause.
OoC: Its a good cut, but there's one we make that i think tops it. Behold: the peppered tenderloin! A filet mignon cut that we heavily season, then sear, then smoke to a rare-medium rare consistency. Also served with horseradish sause, but truly doesn't need it.
On a bit more of a "personal" note, I would also like to introduce myself as the current manager of this account. My name is Floriana, a Ninsar-Class NHP tasked with aiding in the management of the Initiative by our founder Richard Ainsworth. While the Initiative is currently under the guidance of our newest CEO Naveen Ray, I handle a lot of backend management and our social media presence.
In lieu of a conventional "selfie" (a bit difficult without a "face") I offer this rendering of my standard holographic avatar.
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isn’t sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled “recent pulls” with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< …hey, y’all. We’re alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I don’t like to show this place so much, but it’s mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doin’ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< …broadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. I’ll handle it. You just rest unless there’s anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmr’s shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. S’alright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachi’s comp/con. It’s—Fox is—shit, I don’t really understand what’s going on with it. It’s our packmate, that’s the big thing. Always was. It’s my sibling, and we’re just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. How…are you—today?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensed…sister. is the FENRISÚLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registered…brother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Fox’s cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
…it’s got this—trouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckin’ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, she’s—well, she made a broadcast, and y’all probably saw it. Fox is…gonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmr’s gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< It’s alive, but—solidified. I guess that’s the metaphor. Depleted uranium. We’ve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Ma’ii’s gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. He’s alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< We—yeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty good— >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. We’re all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. I’m working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but it’s gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Ma’ii forging our papers. We’re gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Ma’ii—knows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Ma’ii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what we’re dealing with. I can pay.
…also. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, we’re here. Sunny—especially you. Thanks. Wouldn’t be here without y’all.
Alright. Fox and I, we’ll be in touch. Take care. >
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isn’t sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled “recent pulls” with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< …hey, y’all. We’re alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I don’t like to show this place so much, but it’s mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doin’ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< …broadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. I’ll handle it. You just rest unless there’s anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmr’s shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. S’alright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachi’s comp/con. It’s—Fox is—shit, I don’t really understand what’s going on with it. It’s our packmate, that’s the big thing. Always was. It’s my sibling, and we’re just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. How…are you—today?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensed…sister. is the FENRISÚLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registered…brother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Fox’s cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
…it’s got this—trouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckin’ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, she’s—well, she made a broadcast, and y’all probably saw it. Fox is…gonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmr’s gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< It’s alive, but—solidified. I guess that’s the metaphor. Depleted uranium. We’ve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Ma’ii’s gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. He’s alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< We—yeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty good— >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. We’re all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. I’m working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but it’s gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Ma’ii forging our papers. We’re gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Ma’ii—knows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Ma’ii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what we’re dealing with. I can pay.
…also. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, we’re here. Sunny—especially you. Thanks. Wouldn’t be here without y’all.
Alright. Fox and I, we’ll be in touch. Take care. >
