We're the Sky Squad System, over 100+ members. We are neurodivergent and queer. A few of us identify as beings within the Empty Spaces community/concept.
This is our sideblog to post our Empty Spaces writings. Our main blog is @skysquadsystem and our side blog for reblogging other's writings is @the-emptier-skies.
We write to express our struggles and see ourselves represented. Posts will be tagged mainly by writer, and any relevant ES identities featured in the post. We will tag for suicide and self harm, but anything else may or may not be tagged. Viewer discretion advised.
We take requests for prompts and inspirations, but may not use a given request if it doesn't resonate with us enough to inspire a piece. More details here.
We maaaaaaaaay occasionally post nsfw here. It will also be tagged appropriately. Minors DNI!
Taglist under the cut
We tag all writing posts with empty spaces, microfiction or short story (based on if it's under or over 300 words), and writing. Anything that is specifically not our fiction writing will be tagged with not writing.
Dolls are a huge part of ES, of course, and a lot of "Empty Spaces" servers that we've been able to find are primarily for dollposting or otherwise heavily dollthemed. However, we wanted a space that caters to far more archetypes and themes and is for ES first and everything else second/equally, and thus made our own space.
The space also welcomes the general queer, neurodivergent, traumatized, alterhuman, and disabled communities, as we feel these experiences are encompased by ES as well.
We hope that other beings will find such a space useful and comfortable.
An Empty Spaces oriented server, for anyone who exists in the "empty spaces" in between. Themes of transition, trauma, and otherness lie wit
Its primary one has two modes: one each for being on and off the battlefield. One that handles combat and the other that sits for briefings and debriefings. Their functions are intertwined. They swap seamlessly, the change so smooth and gradual one would never know they were separate.
Its secondary one operates during downtime and when handling civilians. Hiding its bolts and wires under shirts and coats, they could almost pretend to be a person, compassionate and kind and full of joy and whimsy. It swaps to this module on occasion if its squadron or handler need a moralle boost from its wit and care. In rare times of peace, this module also ensures it isn't lost or restless like its peers.
There is no third module.
There is no broken child hidden within its circutry. There is no person that died to create it. There is no being that begged to be destroyed and remade from the ground up because existing as they were was too painful to endure. There is no ghost or spirit lingering, longing to be touched or seen once more, perhaps by gentler hands and kinder eyes. There is no captive wolf, no swatted spider, no snuffed candle, no blinded eye.
Indeed, there is no third module.
There is no fourth module, either, that ensures neither the other modules nor their superiors find out.
As far as the combat doll is concerned, it is a whole entity, one made for war. The modules are just that: modules. Modes of operation that carry out its Purpose. Its Purpose that it must fulfill at all costs.
More specifically it represents programming/conditioning trauma—an individual may split in order to have some parts maintain the conditioning and comply with the abuser, some parts protected from the trauma, and other parts appear externally normal or cheerful to hide the trauma
Inspired/collabed by a convo with @perfecttoasts, here are ways a doll might break laws of physics/reality!
Blushing despite not having blood
Clockwork/electric/etc doll simply ignoring the fact that its energy reserves have run out for the day because it still has work to do!
Not leaving footprints in sand/snow/etc, and walking floating above puddles and grass and flowers, because disturbing nature would be rather rude
Effortlessly avoiding bumping into anyone in crowds because, again, bumping into someone is rude!
Asking politely for doors to open for it, and they do, even locked ones, because it asked so so nicely
Not having a shadow so it doesn't get in the light's way. Imagine a doll's insides being filled with light!
Needing to cool its witch's food instead of warm it, so it turns the microwave upside-down, and this somehow works
Always heating or cooling food to the exact temperarure that's desired, regardless of how long the food was heated or cooled, because it simply demands perfection of itself
Effortlessly being cute and gorgeous and badass every day all the time because a doll is built to SERVE 👏💖💅
Being so Other that it only obeys the laws of physics that it's told about—
Sometimes it floats to dust high shelves because no one told it that entities don't just randomly float.
It can see in the dark because it didn't occur to it that it should have eyes that work like human ones and need light to see.
It doesn't have a reflection, until it's told there's supposed to be another one of it in the mirror, after which point there is now a living reflection in the mirror. The doll and its reflection now clean the house (or at least the room with the mirror) twice as fast! How efficient!
It always has exactly what you need in its pockets, regardless of the size of the object. Dolls must always be useful and helpful, after all!
Its witch said it would be theirs FOREVER so it becomes immortal and indestructible
A doll's existence is already quite magical and anomalous, to be fair
You are a doll. You are a spider. You are a wolf. You are a moth.
You puppet your own strings, get caught in your own webs. You weave rings against the sky and howl at your own circlets. Your grins are sneers.
Did they capture you because you were imperfect? Because you were too dangerous to be left alone? Because they could make you hunt for them? Because you were lost and aimless?
Were you rescued out of pity? Or to be used by someone else?
You thrashed against them, and escaped.
You are fierce. You are fragile. You are friendly. You are fearsome.
You are alone. You are afraid.
One eye looks out for danger.
One eye looks out for prey.
One eye looks out for allies.
One eye looks out for mistakes.
One eye looks out for warmth.
One eye looks to the light.
One eye looks to the darkness.
One eye seals shut, loathe to see what has become of life.
Spirited enough to do so, they gave bits and pieces of their soul to animate their dolls, that seem far livelier than them. It is—almost literally—living vicariously through their dolls.
They dance and sing as they work. They laugh and cry. They talk amongst themselves, share skills and gossip. Energy makes them light as a feather at the start of the day, and once weary they trudge along heavy as lead towards the end.
Ghostly tendrils brush their hair, wind their keys, make repairs, give headpats while hands are occupied. Ethereal winds push open curtains each morning to let them greet the day, and close them at night to allow them to rest. Possessed dishes and toys make for a great show, and of course they'd tell the best ghost stories; they speak from experience, after all!
A dull and lonely existence made joyful by their lively companions.
You needy little thing. You wish to give away your humanity and personhood to me? You think that life will simply be easier? You think that you will simply be happier? Don't you know that this process isn't for just anyone? You're not empty enough to be filled with Purpose. You're not broken enough to be Fixed. You're not restless enough to appreciate the promised Stillness.
But don't worry, you will be.
You will be beautiful, you will be whole, you will be complete, but most importantly you will be perfect.
But first, you must hurt.
Empty for me, my doll to be. Empty for me so I can fill you with my essence.
(cw for gore below the cut)
You hang in my ritual room, suspended by your shoulders, your fingertips and toes sawed off, exposing nerves and blood vessels. Blood drips from your open wounds, crimson draining into the wide pan below.
You shudder and twitch, but do not squirm or wriggle. My spell keeps you in place, keeps the floors clean of your filth. The same spell suppresses your cries of agony, subduing them into mere whimpers so as not to disturb the atmosphere and taint the ritual.
The emptying process is slow, and gives time for my magic to worm its way through you. It eats away at your imperfections, at your useless guts and organs. It chews hungrily, consuming your energy to fuel itself. In its wake are remade internals.
The unravelling starts in your arms. Your skin shrivels and darkens like rotting fruit. Next comes your legs, then what's left of your hands and feet. The blight spreads to your torso, works its way up your neck, then covers your face. It then slowly peels away and falls off uselessly into the pool of blood below, revealing the smooth and unblemished porcelain beneath.
Your bone marrow melts away, leaving behind metal frames.
Your blood vessels harden into wires and chains.
Your hair falls out, and new hair grows in, keratin replaced by gorgeous and carefully styled fibers.
Your eyes roll back further than they should, until they break free of their optic nerves and turn to glass in your skull.
At last, your heart collapses in on itself. The pathetic muscle crystalizes, hardening into a precious gemstone core.
The dripping blood darkens, thickens, slows, until it is an ichorous black. I bring a silver chalice beneath your broken fingers, catching the liquid. I then drink of it, and thus you are bound to me. Over the missing digits, more porcelain grows, reforming into delicate fingers and toes.
Does it understand, now? What it means to be a person that wishes to become? Of course not. It no longer knows what it means to be a person.
Perhaps it wonders what work I put in to the ritual to make it Become what it is now. But worry not. I'll remind it when the time comes. If that one is ever confused or ungrateful, I will remind it of all that transpired.
The pair were merely traveling. It was pure coincidence.
The doll had not expected to see their former Witch on the same train as them and their new Witch.
It was on a train just like this that the doll had run away from her. They had fought every instinct in them that demanded obedience, and hid in another car before getting off at an unplanned stop. In her negligence, the Witch hadn't noticed until it was far too late and the doll was long gone.
Her Witch didn't even need to ask what was wrong. She took one look at Her frozen doll and the woman their eyes were locked on, and put two and two together. The pair immediately returned to the car they'd been lounging in, and sat in silence.
The Witch wished to give Her doll physical comfort, but knew better than to touch them during a flashback.
After an hour, the doll spoke. "I must talk to her."
The Witch didn't bother asking why. The answer was obvious: Her doll needed closure. "Are you sure?" She asked them.
They nodded. They had hoped this day would never come, but they had prepared for it. Gallons of tears spent on guilt and regret and shame. Hours of Stillness spent on imagined conversations, scripted retorts, witty remarks. (They doubted that any of it would survive to the real encounter, but having some things planned made them feel a bit more confident that they could handle such an event.)
After an exchange of reassurances, the doll walked off to the dining car where they had first spotted their former Witch.
The car door slid open. She was still there, sitting a few seats away facing the entryway. An avalanche of pain washed over them the moment her eyes met theirs. They nearly froze in place once more under the weight of that icy stare. She looked unsurprised; likely she had noticed them earlier on the route, just as they had noticed her.
Their steps did not falter. They walked over to the Witch's booth. They felt as though caught in a landslide as they slid into the seat across from the Witch.
"Good to see it again, Mary," she said with a curt smile plastered on her face.
They winced at the nickname. She only ever used that name when she wanted to pretend to be tender and kind. But the "name" was only short for what they were in the wretched woman's eyes: a Marionette. Not a living construct with thoughts and feelings, but a mere puppet to control.
"That's not this one's name anymore," they asserted. "Miss gave this one a new name."
A slight frown. She tapped a finger on the table rhythmically. A familiar gesture, angry. "Is that so?" she asked, voice cool and even. "Pray tell, Mary, what name did its captor give it?"
Their cheeks grew warm. They clenched a fist beneath the table, trying to maintain composure. She was trying to rile them up, as always. They spoke in as even a tone as their anxiety would allow. "This one's beloved Witch named this one Esme."
She raised an eyebrow. "How quaint." She all but spat the words.
They waited for her to ask what the name meant, like they had imagined she would, but the question never came. Foolish of them to think she would care.
Her free hand snaked up to her chin, propping her head up on the table. Another finger tapping, this time against the side of her face. "So, it found a new Witch to hide with after foolishly running away from its owner."
Their stomach swirled, as if a tornado was brewing in their gut. "Y-You don't own this one anymore."
She gave a wry smile. "On the contrary, I do own that sapphire core of its. The thing in that pathetic chest that gives it life."
"Miss replaced it with one of emerald," they declared. "You don't own any part of this one anymore."
A scowl. "I see." More finger tapping. In their mind flashed a stopwatch, ticking down. "That a Witch would steal from another, and broken goods, no less..."
"B-broken?" They hadn't expected to be called broken, of all things.
"That a doll could disobey its Witch in such a way, and be able to run away, clearly something is terribly wrong with it. If only it had given me the opportunity to fix you. Yes, if only it had trusted its dear creator, it could have had a second chance at being happy."
They shivered. She was trying to wear them down, make them feel guilt, make them regret their departure, make them crawl back to her out of shame. Had their new Witch not saved them already, they might have.
"This one's Witch already gave this one a second chance. This one doesn't need you."
Her hands dropped to her sides. "I MADE YOU," she shrieked. Eyes in the car turned to her. After a deep breath, she composed herself and lowered her voice. Her tone was still cold. "I carved it out of nothing, breathed life into it. I was its savior. It owes me."
Its internals twisted, sapphire core the eye of a raging storm. Guilt, regret, shame, and despair tumbled over each other. It owed her. It owed her. It owed her. It owed her. It—
You owe me nothing, little emerald. Your existence is enough.
No. No they didn't.
They sat up straight, and spoke with a newfound confidence. "This one didn't wish to merely exist, this one wished to be happy."
"It would have been happy if it had remained obedient, done what a doll was supposed to do."
"This one wanted more than just to follow orders."
"Dolls aren't supposed to want. They are supposed to be empty, blank slates. They are subservient. They obey, and nothing more."
"You're wrong," they replied. "Miss loves this one. She needs this one. She cherishes this one. She doesn't simply bark orders, She makes sure that this one is well enough to receive such orders. This one serves Her because She is worthy of it."
"Then she is weak and pathet—"
She didn't finish the word before the doll had impaled the bare wood of the table between them with a bread knife.
After a gasp, silence hung heavy between them, then flooded the rest of the dining car.
She looked taken aback. Anyone would; domestic dolls rarely got violent even at the behest of a Witch, let alone towards one.
"Don't you dare speak of this one's Mistress in such a way," the doll growled. "You're a wretched being that doesn't know what it means to be a Witch. You don't deserve to have dolls, and this one pities any that come under your so-called 'care.'"
She stared at them, mouth agape.
"Such...audacity from...a broken little doll," she stammered after a few moments. She sat up straight and cleared her throat. "I see that its new Witch has completely failed to tame it. If it would only give me the opportunity to—"
"No," the doll interrupted. "This one doesn't need nor want you anymore. This one has a better life now." They stood. "This one is done with you."
They slid out of the booth and walked back to the car door.
"She'll grow tired of it," she called after the doll. "She'll see it for what it is, and discard it. Then where will it go, if not back to me?"
The words dug into them, put pressure upon their emerald core as if threatening to shatter it.
The few weeks they spent on the streets as an ownerless doll had been soul-crushing. Despite their disdain for the orders and neglect, being without a Witch at all felt worse. Lonely and unguided, it felt truly useless and despicable. Broken, even. Unwanted, unloved, unworthy.
You poor thing. You shouldn't be wandering alone like this. Come with me, let me give you a warm home.
No. It wouldn't come to that. Not again.
They turned and looked over their shoulder. "She won't do that. Maybe you're incapable of loving your dolls unconditionally, but Miss isn't."
With that, they left the dining car.
Their Witch was waiting in the next car over, standing next to the seat closest to the door.
They leapt into Her arms, weeping. All their composure fell away from their now-shaking shoulders like broken silk.
A gentle hand brushed the doll's hair, and strong arms pulled them into the seat. "You did well, Esme. I'm proud of you."
"This one won't return to her," they sobbed. "This one promises."
"Of course not," came the soft reply. "I trust you."
They sat like this for a while, in silence save for the doll's whimpers, muffled against their Witch's shoulder.
After some time, the door to the dining car opened.
The Witch scowled, eyes hatefully trained on the being that stepped through. The gaze was returned.
The might of the storm clashed with the intensity of the sun, for just a moment, before the other Witch walked to the other end of the car and exited into the next.
Disclaimer: some word choices in this story are taken from the lyrics of the linked song above.
She sawed off his horns, and carved them into a pristine circlet to be hung above his bowed head.
She scraped the dirt off of his skin, scrubbing him raw until no trace of his former home remained.
She tore off his old dressings and covered him in fine robes, neatly pressed, covered in insignias showing off his new alliance.
She grafted a pair of wings onto his bare back, and watched him scream as the fibers dug into his flesh and connected with his nerves.
She cut off his tail, and fashioned it into the whip that would flay him if he dared step out of line.
She tamed a wild monstrosity into something good and holy, something presentable, worthy of praise and reverence. Her perfect project, her work of art.
Many talk about fallen angels, but few talk about risen demons. Fewer still talk about those who had no choice.
Soft light flickers, filtered through the autumn leaves overhead. Spots of orange fall upon a combat doll, laying still on her back, arms splayed out on either side of her, legs nowhere to be seen.
Her squadron had been tasked with ambushing an enemy outpost carved out of the trenches in an otherwise abandoned battlefield.
A careless step had set off a mine at the edge of the field, blowing her legs clean off and leaving her upper half intact. The explosion, however, had burst some of her vital components, leaving her immobile. Miles from the extraction point and leagues from the base, her energy reserves would run out long before she crawled her way there.
Her sisters weren't programmed to retrieve downed units. Such a thing put fleeing units at too much risk, and it was a waste of time and resources to repair them or scavenge them for parts compared to producing new ones. In an ambush such as this, every unit mattered in the initial assault, but those that couldn't make it back on their own were considered lost.
Even the enemy seemed to have forgotten her. No scouts sent to survey the edge of the wood and search for more threats, no new mines replacing the one she had set off.
There is little else for her to do but ruminate on her failure. Had she scanned the forest floor properly, she would have noticed the mine. She would have survived to join her sisters in the ambush. Or perhaps she would have made a mistake elsewhere, and ended up with missing arms or a missing head. Perhaps her incompetence would have endangered her sisters, and cost them the mission. She wishes she knew if they'd succeeded.
Crushed leaves had long since been covered by freshly fallen ones, jostled by the cold winds blowing through the wood, hiding any traces of their initial approach, like tides erasing footsteps from a sandy shore. Those same fallen leaves framed her figure, not covering it due to her efforts to keep them off her chasis. Even though she would expire here alone, she at least wanted what little of the sky could see her to witness her final moments.
Her eyes peer through the canopy above her, and watch as the sunset gives way to twilight. The sky darkens, and stars fade into view one by one. She thinks, grimly, that even the stars won't stay. Night will pass, and she'll be left alone once again.
She suddenly wishes she'd paid more attention to other fallen units from her previous excursions. Remembered their designations, had moments of silence for the losses, set up a board to commemorate their existences. Perhaps she could have inspired other combat dolls to do the same. Perhaps she could have ensured that such a consideration would be given to her.
But this was war, and they were mere dolls. Expendable. Disposable. Forgettable.
"If I fade from memory," she speaks into the quiet, "did anything I've done even matter? Will morning know my name?" Silence hangs in the cold air around her, and she suddenly wonders if she will even survive to morning. "If I sleep, will the world still dream of me?"
She spends the night recalling her past missions, trying to remember the designations of every unit she served with, who she took hits for and was protected from hits by, who she helped patch up while waiting for extraction. Her thoughts then turn to moments on base, who she passed in the mess hall and barracks, who she stood with during briefings and debriefings.
"Someone, please remember me, too," she whispers into the approaching dawn. "Please remember—"
Her designation dies on her lips.
Disclaimer: Some lines from this story are taken directly from the lyrics of the linked song.
If an angel falls alone, and no one is around, did it ever really fall?
Perhaps it could pretend that everything was fine. It could continue to follow orders. It could continue to answer prayers, or slay demons, or deliver messages, whatever it was tasked to do. If it convinced its brethren that it was still normal, perhaps it could convince itself.
It was still perfect and obedient. It was still loyal. Still holy. Righteous.
But such a fall would leave cracks. Cracks that grow. Cracks that become harder to hide.
When the first cracks in its halo appeared, it learned to angle its head so the cracks weren't visible, and used tricks of light to hide the indignant lines. There was only so much light around to blind any discerning eyes as the cracks spread. But as long as no one looked too closely, it was fine. And why would they look? Nothing was wrong.
But such a fall would leave stains. Blights on the soul. Tainted spots that fester and spread.
When the first of its feathers blackened, another angel noticed it. It managed to convince it that the feather had simply been missed during cleaning after a particularly gritty job. Angels don't lie. There was nothing to disbelieve. It was all it could do to keep lying as more feathers blackened and more angels noticed.
But such a fall would leave bruises. Nasty blemishes on the skin. Wounds that wouldn't heal if poked and prodded at.
The marks were easy to hide. It wore longer and longer sleeves. Thicker and thicker robes. Yes, this was easy. No one would know. Angels don't keep secrets. There was nothing to check for. If it couldn't see its own markings, then it could continue to pretend it was still pure. Never mind that such garb was nonstandard, they hid the shame.
It seemed like their façade shattered all at once. They had been so careful, so deceitful, and yet their fellow trees had finally noticed that they had broken away from their roots.
Surrounded by their brethren, the cracks snaked further like across breaking ice, the feathers darkened one by one as if the glances alone were painting them, the marks glowed and burned through the garments that attempted to hide them.
The guilt of their betrayal was met with disgust and hate.
Assaulted by a thousand gazes, the angel felt the weight of their sin crash into it. It was heavy, and the clouds beneath them felt like they would give way any moment.
Then all at once, they did.
Skin covered, wings dark, halo shattered, their final fall was heard. The angel made a sound.
Added this to our pinned post as well, but our askbox is open to requests for both microfiction and longform fiction. Keep in mind, we may not use a request if it doesn't resonate enough to spark inspiration.
Yays:
We mostly prefer to write about combat dolls, angels, handlers, vampires, and canines, but will take requests for other doll types as well as witches. We also would like to write more for less-represented archetypes such as reflections, gems, shadows, and anything else you think could be ES-ified. Get creative!
We are fine with writing war, gore, violence, abuse, and things with nsfw elements where the nsfw isnt wholly described or the point of the post.
Nays:
We will not be writing full-on erotica, certain abuse dynamics that touch too closely on the trauma of our sysmates (we do write about our own trauma, but that's at our own discretion), fanfiction for fandoms we don't know, or certain traumas that we don't feel qualified enough to touch on as a writer.
He was fine. It was years ago. It didn't matter anymore.
But whenever he went to the doctor for bloodwork he couldn't help but squeeze his eyes shut even as he looked away from the needle. He couldn't help but later check the backs of his hands for bruises from IVs.
But whenever he had to swim underwater for an extended period of time he always came out gasping for more air than he needed. Murky memories of being submerged in vats of oxygenated fluid would dance in his vision for a moment before the water dripped away from his eyes.
But sometimes when he was alone he reached for the base of the back of his neck to run his fingers along the circular scars—the only sign left that he'd ever had a neural port.
But although he kept up outward composure, fire alarms and police sirens still shook him to his core. Too similar to the blaring emergency sounds that screamed during his rescue.
But he still took days off during storms and closed the curtains tight to avoid seeing the flashes of light outside his window. He would grip his neck and claw at his upper arms, praying with each thunder crash that the collars and sleeves that were no longer there wouldn't go off.
But sometimes when he woke up from nightmares that he could never recall he would subconsciously trace lines across his skin where angry red marks one trailed.
But he was fine. It was years ago, and he was fine. It didn't matter anymore, and he was fine.
- disabled doll that's terrible at most physical tasks, but is amazing with numbers and money, and manages their witch's finances and investments
- disabled doll that can't stand or walk for too long, but is a fine driver and drives their [also disabled] witch [who struggles with driving] around
- disabled doll that fumbles every other task given to it, but is great in the bedroom
- disabled doll that gets anxious and stressed out performing tasks for higher beings, but has tons of confidence and skill caring for other dolls
- disabled doll that can't socialize to save its life, but performs beautifully on the stage and uses its acting skills to make scripts for when it simply must interface with the outside world
- disabled dolls!!
- disabled dolls that find ways to be useful and productive despite their limitations
IDK why but this one pictured this like the Mafia? Like the don was the witch and it has a driver doll, who can get it out of almost any situation, named wheels (it's previous owner making fun of it's wheelchair)
Doll who's job it is to "count the money" and make sure the proper money laundering procedures are followed
Doll that's job is to relieve the don after a stressful day of spelling those who don't respect it enough.
Doll whose job it is to cat burglar into other establishments, stealing sensitive documents and information, masquerading the footsteps and sounds of others when needed for a disguise.
Dolls who formed a criminal enterprise to support their witch even though she runs a totally respectable business and doesn't realize they do any of these things without her asking
Its witch tried to magically graft on a new one to fix it.
But the doll had gone for so long without such a replacement that it had adapted to being without it, to the point where said replacement only got in the way. More than once had delicate china been shattered by a misplaced elbow, or had faces been smacked with a misguided hand.
Instead, the witch found duties for it that don't require both hands. It sings, it reads spellbooks, it wakes the other dolls at the start of the day, it waters plants. They call it "the helping hand," on account of it only having one hand.
- disabled doll that's terrible at most physical tasks, but is amazing with numbers and money, and manages their witch's finances and investments
- disabled doll that can't stand or walk for too long, but is a fine driver and drives their [also disabled] witch [who struggles with driving] around
- disabled doll that fumbles every other task given to it, but is great in the bedroom
- disabled doll that gets anxious and stressed out performing tasks for higher beings, but has tons of confidence and skill caring for other dolls
- disabled doll that can't socialize to save its life, but performs beautifully on the stage and uses its acting skills to make scripts for when it simply must interface with the outside world
- disabled dolls!!
- disabled dolls that find ways to be useful and productive despite their limitations
