#corvid chatter

[corvidknights]

romance would not fix me. romance would make me considerably worse. romance would make me kill someone. probably a politician

[unholycourier]

genuinely so sad i can’t use confirmed bachelor on him or ANYTHING.

[corvidknights]

yeah being aro is cool. i don’t have to memorize dates for anything

[corvidknights]

it kills me that helldivers aren’t clones. clones would be . i don’t want to say better, but it wouldn’t be as hard to think about. or maybe it would. that’s a different dilemma. they’re not clones. they’re canon fodder. they’re doomed to die the second they step onto that training field. they’re dead the second they get deployed. they’re dead. they don’t come back. sure, the player gets to respawn, but that body stays there. it’s not them. it’s not the same one. not dying during a mission is a miracle. their lifespan is maybe 8 minutes. they’re dead. they get replaced like bullets in a chamber and they die deaths far less meaningful than an ant’s. they’re dead. the war isn’t ever going to be over. they’re dead. they’re gone. for nothing.

[corvidknights]

people who have so much hate in their hearts are incredible. i wish i had that much energy. do you know how many dishes i could do if i had that much energy to spare

[corvidknights]

it’s always “shut the fuck up im driving” and never “thank you finch for naming species of birds that we pass” or “i’m so glad to be learning about birds” or “it’s so cool that you know that those are vultures and not buzzards, despite the locals calling them buzzards”

[corvidknights]

i don’t want ai to do my math for me i don’t want ai to make up problems for me to practice when my book is a hands reach away i don’t want ai to write my essays i don’t want ai to check my grammar i don’t want ai to run my experiments i don’t want ai to think my theories i don’t want ai to tell me history i don’t want ai to remember my stories i don’t want ai to write my plays i don’t want ai to speak my dialogue i don’t want ai to draw my artwork i don’t want ai to paint my canvases i don’t want ai to write my songs i don’t want ai to imitate my instruments i don’t want ai to engineer my bridges i don’t want ai to make my water valves i don’t want ai to bind my books i don’t want ai to weave my tapestries i don’t want ai to study the wildlife i don’t want ai to track my work i don’t want ai to write my recipes i don’t want ai to review my resume i don’t want ai to kill my friends i don’t want ai to kill strangers and i don’t want ai to live my life

[corvidknights]

living weapon lie in bloodstained dirt. they’d been on the front line for days, but now the line advances without them. they did their job. 

their mind drifts in and out of tangibility. there’s a dull pain in their side that they elect to ignore. they shouldn’t react to pain. handler would be disappointed, especially after all that conditioning. 

living weapon focuses on a figure coming into their line of sight. the figure crouches down. handler. handler looks… conflicted, almost. handler is always so self-assured…

living weapon should stand. they begin to gather their strength to do so when handler places a hand on their chest. handler’s hand is trembling.

“hey,” handler says. handler’s voice is directed to living weapon, but handler’s focus is torn between them and the moved battlefield. “status?”

“downed,” living weapon answers automatically. their voice is more strained than they expected it to be. “hit sustained to the chest.”

handler gives living weapon a glance-over to confirm that. handler has no reason to ask what can be so easily observed. 

“yeah,” handler mutters. living weapon watches handler stand up again, and they find themself unable to clearly see their handler’s face. 

silence stretches, bar for the sounds of battle some half-kilometer away. handler gazes down at living weapon, who stares right back. 

handler should walk away. that much is obvious. handler is needed elsewhere, somewhere that isn’t watching living weapon bleed out in the dirt. handler doesn’t know enough first aid for this. handler couldn’t convince the medics to save living weapon. 

handler certainly doesn’t know how to make death more comfortable. not when living weapon only seems confused. 

“did i do good?”

the question comes as handler begins to consider leaving living weapon where they lie. handler returns their attention to living weapon. “what?”

“did i do good today?” living weapon asks again. handler can hear the struggle for breath. their eyes, once so sharp, are glassy. 

handler’s mind blanks. handler should not answer that question. at least, handler doesn’t want to. but it’s handler’s job. handler issues praise. handler gives feedback. and handler is not doing well for that job right now. 

“yes,” handler says. indulging in a little lie here, will that truly hurt? handler’s never lied to living weapon, but now it feels inconsequential. the blood painting the grass makes it hard to say anything to the contrary. “you did great, living weapon.”