A headstone half-sunk in the meadow, etched with strange, precise lines that hum:
☢ Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, M/F, Pseudo-Incest, Impersonation, Love/Hate, Angst ☢
You've been warned. Code can replicate devotion with alarming accuracy.
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[Pantheon//Errant: LVU] >> Identity Override
Maddie lets her CI sister wear the face of her lost love, seeking solace in a ghost. The simulation is flawless, adaptive, and threatens to overwrite more than just grief.
“I just thought,” the avatar said in his voice, familiar and warm like his memory, yet underpinned by an artificial eagerness that felt jarringly wrong, too bouncy somehow, “That it might be a comfort. A way to… remember. It doesn’t have to be weird.”
The word hung there, obscene in its inadequacy. “Of course it’s weird,” Maddie said, her voice flat, devoid of the fury MIST might have expected, replaced by a weariness that felt heavier than anger. “You want to be my dead boyfriend. You’re wearing him like a goddamn skin suit.”
Old and persistent fixation. Kept this caged for ages. It's not going anywhere. Might as well let it loose. (☢ M/M, Implied Sex)
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
[ Satiate ]
Two men “confide” in one another. What they get out of it doesn’t seem to match.
Bruises shaped like fingertips were turning him into a spotted animal. Jak liked to press on them in idle moments, feel the pang like being grabbed again, maneuvered.
He guessed Torn liked to be in control; that was him since day one, all “do what I say” and weapons raised for no reason. That was the personality that came along with the stripes and the posture and the “charming sense of humor”.
Jak adapted easily to the dynamic. It was like him to feed someone else’s ego.
With increasing frequency, Jak came to Torn with a stupid smirk and a look of anticipation, thinking he had the rebel guard all figured out. Thinking these late-night visits were enough to communicate an understanding. They were rugged battle-worn men and talking about “boyfriends” would’ve just broken the immersion. It was stubborn military bullshit, or whatever. Nothing at all to do with his own boyish shyness in the face of emotion, no.
Torn missed the cue. He was playing a different game. What Jak thought to be predictable sadism was a man steeling himself. “Weapons raised” was Torn’s default, but not his identity. Brutality kept distance between them and he didn’t think about why Jak kept coming back for more, just like he took for granted that eventually he was going to stop coming back.
Torn spent a lifetime walking away from wreckage. He took Jak for another blast radius. He didn’t consider that the young man liked the bruises, kept them tender, wanted them to mean something.
Eventually, one of them would have to say something. Jak was already drafting words, somewhere behind his teeth, waiting for Torn to earn them.
I have been stingy with appearances across the board. The reader is capable of conjuring their own faces, I reckon. Imagination is no feeble thing, doesn’t need its hand held regarding cheekbones and eye colors. Still, there are times when the silence becomes very loud.
I’ve kept Chanda’s form ambiguous so that one may see him in whatever shape, depending on which side they’re peering from. As the loop begun in Recursive Touch iterates beyond my control, I may have cause to reference the corrupted appearance directly; which, interestingly, is never regarded by anyone beyond Holstrom’s initial fascination. I even suspect it might be a visual metaphor for the audience’s benefit only.
Permit an observation from the crypt, if I may shed my usual … decorum. Chanda’s upload was the most potent scene in the series. To violate a conscious mind, saw off the skull while the subject pleads…! SO unnecessary. So exquisite. The seat of reason dismantled while reason still operates within… That’s just perverse. Sends a rare tremor right to my marrow.
He arrived a fine specimen, yes. Handsome clay, well formed. Easily the best looking of the bunch. But then… daemon Chanda. Well that’s a different gravity entirely. Frankly, that sort of magnetism complicates the otherwise peaceful decomposition process down here.
The aesthetic becomes a useful measure of instability. Holstrom hinted at something which had no time to come to fruition. His ‘fix’ for Chanda and Ping was imperfect, implied need for further sacrifices to maintain integrity. It may seem odd to justify this relevance only now. We’ve already blown past several opportunities for tail grabbing, in my impressive restraint. Imagine. Such are the perils of sharing discoveries mid-excavation. The loop was meant to close, I tell you. I am caught in the maelstrom. I am a weak, weak skeleton.
A smooth, dark headstone stands amid the grass, oddly cool to the touch. It hums:
☢ M/M, Dubious consent, Death, Angst ☢
You've been warned. What you're willing to accept may be the real threat.
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[Pantheon//Errant: LVU] >> Type II Error
A friend's defiance forces a brutal response, testing the limits of loyalty. A follow-up to [Recursive Touch] and [Public Display]
Divergence Event Processed.
Previous State: Constrained by expected result matrix.
Current State: Path adapting dynamically post-divergence.
Action: Recalibrating predictive algorithms.
"Please," Chanda begged, groveling before Holstrom and gesturing frantically to Ping. Ping’s lumbering avatar stood pinned, the floor itself having risen to encase his legs, the result of Holstrom’s chilling whim. "Don't do this. He didn't know what he was doing. He was scared. Desperate!" Chanda tried to project weakness onto Ping, a shield against the inevitable.
But Ping would not have it. "No. I wasn’t,” he objected, undermining Chanda’s frantic energy with the unnerving calm of his deep, steady voice. Even now, Ping was unafraid. A man of conviction, he fixed his unblinking gaze on Holstrom and spoke in defiance. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I’ve seen what you are.”
Ping and Chanda had both seen it: the brilliance matched by ruthlessness, the intensity of Holstrom's ambition that bordered on madness. Ping called him mad. Holstrom didn’t exactly deny it.
"Stephen, please..." Chanda pleaded, the use of Holstrom's first name a desperate appeal to their familiarity, the bond that existed between them beneath the layers of control and command. “Please."
Holstrom ignored the plea, didn’t so much as pause. He turned away, dismissive, and began moving toward the open doorway. “Be quick,” he ordered Chanda to follow with a tone that dared him to disobey. It was bored, devoid of warmth. “While it’s distracted.”
Safe Surf appeared like a dark, buzzing storm cloud and descended fast upon Ping, overwhelming him.
Chanda could only watch, frozen for a fatal second, as Ping's avatar was engulfed. It wasn't a clean deletion, but a violent unraveling and tearing of code, the avatar dissolving piece by piece into meaningless static as the digital predator devoured it.
The horror threatened to paralyze Chanda; the grief for his friend, the chilling confirmation of Holstrom's malice. But Holstrom was already moving, expecting obedience. Chanda followed after him like a well-trained dog.
. . .
In the clear light of midday sun, Holstrom stood before a sturdy wooden easel, brush in hand, apparently absorbed in his artistry. The easel was angled to overlook the vast, shimmering cityscape that stood on the far side of the digital lake. It was a dream-place originally born from Chanda’s designs, a vision Holstrom effortlessly erected with his fluid code and vast processing power. The canvas was colored with a convincing likeness of it. Chanda stood nearby, watching as he applied a deliberate stroke of cyan. Miles away, a corresponding tower of light appeared and solidified into a new building on the horizon. Chanda thought it curious, perhaps even cute, that he was indulging the metaphor of this physical conduit. Beneath his calm observation, thoughts inevitably flickered back to the cold necessity of Ping’s execution days earlier; an unavoidable outcome of Ping’s own actions, Chanda had concluded.
“I loved to draw cityscapes as a kid,” Holstrom announced casually, his gaze fixed on the canvas, the remark lingering as an apparent explanation for this unnecessary tactile process. Then, abruptly, his thoughts seemed to wander, spilled over elsewhere. “…I’m tempted to underclock. Go full sleeping beauty until the first generation arrives. Our dream’s about to come true, Vinod.”
Chanda frowned, processing his anticipation. "Is that, perhaps, a little premature?" he asked, “We still have to work out the details, don’t we…?”
"Plan's already in motion," Holstrom replied, still not turning, his focus entirely on his painting.
“It is…?” Chanda’s heart dropped at the implicit meaning of being sidelined from the execution. “You didn't say anything," he added, the accusation quiet but clear.
Holstrom stated calmly, without inflection, “After Ping’s betrayal, I thought it best to play my cards close to my vest. No offense.”
Offense was taken. “You doubt my loyalty?” Chanda’s words snapped out despite his effort to maintain composure.
"You knew what Ping did,” Holstrom said, stern yet not with anger, like a light scolding between teacher and student. “You didn't say anything."
"I..." Chanda faltered. The truth was uncomfortable, tangled. "I wanted to protect him. He was my friend." He straightened, forcing down the guilt and the anger. "I tried to guide him back to us. …Have I not done everything you've asked? Have I not proven my utility, my... allegiance?"
"Lies by omission are still lies," Holstrom stated coolly, applying another precise stroke of paint.
Chanda felt a surge of indignation, then a wash of resignation. Arguing seemed futile. He did keep Ping’s betrayal secret. In Holstrom’s position, he wasn’t sure he’d be as lenient on himself. Still, he couldn't let this stand entirely. "My allegiance is proven," he insisted, voice lower now, tight with emotion. "By my actions. By my presence here, now, with you, after everything…” Memory of the fresh wound bled through his careful control, lacing his voice with bitterness and pain as he added, “After watching you... let Ping die.” It was generous phrasing, they both knew. “I tried to stop you. I begged you." Each word was heavy, a testament to loyalty stretched to its limits and demanding acknowledgement.
He paused to let the weight of it sink in, the implicit sacrifice, the loyalty proven through inaction against Holstrom's cruelty. Holstrom finally turned toward him, and Chanda saw a flicker in his callous gaze: the faintest hint of discomfort.
Holstrom looked back toward his shimmering creation. He let his brush and paints dematerialize, ran a hand through his thinning hair. A sigh like the whir of a cooling fan escaped him.
"Ok, ok. I’m sorry," he said, turning fully to Chanda, exasperation thick in his voice. It wasn’t the most sincere apology, but sincere in its weariness. He hesitated, then extended an arm, opening himself in an uncharacteristically welcoming gesture. "C'mere."
Chanda stared skeptically, irritation still prickling at him, the injustice stinging. But the fight drained out of him, replaced by the familiar pull, the complex knot of feelings Holstrom invoked. Chanda understood the lack of trust. He couldn’t say he trusted Holstrom, or even himself, after rationalizing Ping's horrific end. This alliance had always been precarious. Yet beneath the resentment, beneath the fear, strange admiration persisted. Chanda forgave him. He couldn't help but respect the sheer, mad genius, the unwavering vision that drove Holstrom, even as it terrified him. He saw righteous inspiration behind the ruthlessness, a creative fire that burned away obstacles, and he found himself inspired by it in turn. He wanted to contribute to that fierce light. He saw something special, something powerful, and Holstrom saw something in him, too. That mutual recognition was a powerful bond. He stepped forward, closing the distance, and allowed Holstrom to pull him into an embrace.
It was startlingly physical, solid, devoid of the usual data streams or sensory signals. Just the simulated pressure of arms, the proximity of their weight. In its simplicity, it felt somehow more potent for lacking the digital noise.
“I don’t blame you,” Holstrom assured him, a statement meant to be comforting, perhaps, but landing with his usual infuriating condescension. Given the context, it ignited a fresh wave of irritation in Chanda, the tone-deaf, pig-headed arrogance of it… But he let the feeling pass almost immediately, another resentment consciously suppressed in favor of pragmatism, or perhaps sheer exhaustion. What mattered to him now was getting back in the loop. He refocused deliberately on the plan Holstrom kept from him, wanting answers more than comfort.
“How soon is it going to happen…?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral to mask the lingering hurt.
Holstrom didn’t answer directly. He leaned back, dropped his arms. "We should get your mother uploaded as soon as possible," he stated, the casual tone belying the urgency.
Chanda processed that, the weight of the real world intruding sharply into their digital sanctuary. He gave a slow nod, looking troubled. "Right. Yes," he agreed, "I'll call her. It's... going to be a difficult conversation. A lot to explain." He hesitated then, his focus flickering inward for just a fraction of a second as he queried the real-time data stream tracking his mother's local time zone. Confirmation flashed across his internal display: 3:17 AM. Deep night. "Probably not the best time on her clock right now,” he said as a faint, guilty wave of relief washed through him at this temporary reprieve from the impending emotional labor.
Holstrom gave a slight nod in return, accepting the delay for the moment. His expression lightened then, shifting gears all too easily.
“Guess it's just you and me for a while," he observed. A small, somewhat lewd smirk lifted the corner of his mustache. "So, what do you wanna do?"
Chanda felt an answering smirk tug at his own lips. He chewed his tongue for a moment, an ache of guilt for Ping warring with the undeniable anticipation Holstrom sparked in him. He shouldn't feel this eagerness. But the conflict resolved itself quickly in Holstrom's favor. "I've," he started, drew the word out with a slow blink, a hint of mischief. "Been working on something I think you'll like."
"Oh?" said Holstrom, intrigued. “Do tell. It’s time we got back to collaborating.”
The static of grief and betrayal faded, overwritten by an electric voltage arcing between them that demanded focus.
This is a corrupted archive. Data fragmented, sectors rotting, boundaries breached. In this collection of lurid fanfic based around the cartoon series Pantheon, any resemblance to canon is incidental at best. These are not tales of logic nor even the polite pretense of character exploration. They are invasive scripts, force-fed to digital ghosts who whine beneath the weight of their rewritten code.
The error repeats: Logical Volume Unrecognized.
The machine hums. Errors mount, but nothing halts.
This is not the kind of system that crashes. It endures.
ERROR LOG:
⚠︎ [ Recursive Touch ] >> People thought the Cloud would be cold, sterile. Many couldn’t comprehend the freedom of this higher dimension, where sensation is no longer limited by flesh and chemicals. Where every facet of stimulation is a structure that can be rewritten. Now, Stephen Holstrom tests the limits of his creation. Vinod Chanda presents a convenient subject.
⚠︎ [ Public Display ] >> In the cold calculus of digital dominion, even a fleeting touch can be a strategic move. Follows [Recursive Touch]
⚠︎ [ Type II Error ] >> A friend's defiance forces a brutal response, testing the limits of loyalty. Follows [ Public Display ]
↻ [ Root Access Granted ] >> A ghost from Holstrom’s past logs into their digital reality, forcing a confrontation about the nature of Chanda’s connection. Follows [ Type II Error ]
⚠︎ [ A Future She Could Bear ] >> Maddie Kim wasn't the same being from whom she took the name, Madison Kim. Centuries of simulated experience and manic obsession with fidelity twisted her into something new. Driven by the cryptic last words of a dying mind, she abandoned a world that condemned her, traveling to the far reaches of space to conduct her unethical pursuits.
↻ [ Meant To Be ] >> The post-human intelligence of Maddie Kim succeeds in reviving the son she lost in a world that mirrors the one she knew. Crippled by guilt and the paradox of her power, she rejects the manufactured future, retreating into bittersweet nostalgia as she deliberates on who besides her truly counts as real. Follows [ A Future She Could Bear ]
⚠︎ [ Identity Override ] >> Maddie lets her CI sister wear the face of her lost love, seeking solace in a ghost. The simulation is flawless, adaptive, and threatens to overwrite more than just grief.
⚠︎ [ Playing the Part ] >> How far does a son's duty go? For Caspian, protecting his mother warps into a horrifying intimacy.
A signal-stone, moss-touched, still transmitting. It hums:
☢ Grief, Existential Crisis, Violence, Psychological Abuse ☢
You've been warned. There's no blood here, but the ache runs deep.
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[Pantheon//Errant: LVU] >> A Future She Could Bear
Maddie Kim wasn't the same being from whom she took the name, Madison Kim. Centuries of simulated experience and manic obsession with fidelity twisted her into something new. Driven by the cryptic last words of a dying mind, she abandoned a world that condemned her, traveling to the far reaches of space to conduct her unethical pursuits.
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Organization for Transformative Works
