Tactical Soldier Girl Solid Snake (戦術的な兵士の少女 ソリッド・スネーク)

This is what Willem Defoe was writing on his detective pad

*right clicks on you*

*views your properties*

kyaaa~~!!! >///< s-stop it!!! it's embarrassing!!!!

hi y’all i just wanted to put you onto this fundraiser for the buffalo nations grasslands alliance. they’re trying to recoup some of the funds for black-footed ferret conservation on tribal grounds that the trump/musk administration has frozen, which is impacting not only the conservation efforts themselves but the livelihoods of the people working on them. the frozen grant is 1.1 million but this fundraiser has a goal of 50,000.

the fundraiser has 24 days left and has only reached 2% of its goal with 11 donations. black-footed ferrets are an endangered lazarus taxon that was thought to be extinct from 1979-1981 before being rediscovered by accident. they’re a miracle of conservation and it would be horrible to lose them for good, not to mention (again) the impact of people working with these animals losing their jobs which is outlined in the fundraiser link. indigenous-led conservation efforts are extremely important for a wide variety of reasons and as someone in the zoology area i feel obligated to share this fundraiser to contribute to those efforts.

i know that things are hard right now and there’s a lot of people and organizations all across the world that need help, so don’t feel pressured BUT if you have extra money and you can contribute to this fundraiser or share it with people who can that would be great.

super cute black-footed ferrets ^

Boosting this here- black footed ferrets are perhaps a little more charismatic than we usually allow here, but they need all the help they can get!

Marioro - Mario Kart 64 (1996)

arsenalgirl is made up of ten thousand blades, capable of interlocking into a gigantic woman of jagged metal edges or dispersing into a swirling, formless congeries of swords. I don’t actually have a joke or a story here, I just can’t get over how sick it would be to be that

Tactical Soldier Girl Solid Snake (戦術的な兵士の少女 ソリッド・スネーク)

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There's an old saying, probably from back in the 90s, if not earlier, before the big post-War orbital reinvestment, that laws stop at the Karman Line. Not quite true, but close enough. Technically in orbit you're in international waters, and as such companies can incorporate their stations under the laws of the Lunar Soviet, the Martian Exploratory Committee, or even the Titan Expedition if they want to get around safety regulations. Safety regulation like the one that says people need to experience real, full gravity, not just rotational or accelerational simulation, two years for every year in orbit. I hadn't been ground side in a decade. We were somewhere over I think the American Reclamation Zone, as I left the sled, tethers the only thing holding me to anything as I floated on nothing. A single hand reaching up towards the solar shade of the military satellite the company had been contracted to repair. Somewhere down there I had been born. "Ames?" came Control's reassuring voice, ringing through my company issued implants. "On structure."

"Right," came Control's voice, "don't be enjoying the view. The corporate-military conglom that owns this beast wants the job done right, and unfortunately that means I'm gonna need you to hard-wire into the satellite. Don't have your head down in the clouds."

"My head's always in the dark, Control," I said, working my way hand over hand along the guide-bars towards the access panel. "Why is it unfortunate?"

"Are you there?"

"Yeah," I said, pulling the long connection wire from the company's suit towards the panel, watching the sync happen in my cornea. "Why?"

"You'll see." "Well now," said a new voice, suddenly speak in my head with all the cloying subtlety of a nineteen year old drunk outside a bar, "aren't you just dreammmy."

My initial overtures fail to elicit a verbal response, but hardwired into my system, I read the spike of neurochemicals. Oh yeah, she definitely likes it when I talk to her like that.

“You come here often?” I say into comm link.

“It's my first time,” she replies.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I purr.

She doesn't respond to that. No nonsense, head in the game, get the job done.

I like that.

Seventeen of my main bus sensor arrays watch as she opens the access panel. In seconds, she identifies the loose connector, the one that's particularly susceptible to a particular vibrational frequency that I employ when I'm feeling particularly in need of attention. The motions of her fingers are deft and competent, not at all like the bumbling oafs they normally send out here.

She's perfect.

I want her. Carnally.

(I think… I don't actually know what that means, but it's probably close enough to describe the feelings coursing through my neural network)

I pick out a target I've been saving specifically for an occasion like this. It's a small asteroid that's been circling around Earth-Luna L5, only a few hundred thousand cubic meters and flagged only as a watch item. I bump the threat index up to the minimum threshold for preventative mitigation.

I feed a trickle of my telemetry stream into her corneal implants, showing her a magnified view of the target and my firing solution.

“Hey, beautiful,” I say. “Wanna see something sexy?”

Before she can respond, the targeting gimbals in one of my rail guns shift into place. With a deep rumble that she can feel through her suit, I let loose a tungsten pellet at hyper orbital velocities. Seven point two seconds later, the asteroid is a cloud of vapor.

Judging by the increase of speed in her heartbeat and breathing, she's impressed.

She pats my chassis and says “good job” with a shaky voice.

The haptic and verbal feedback sends a surge of euphoria though my higher processes. I let out a tiny moan into the comm link and almost unconsciously, I fire off another railgun shot.

The entire DeepWatch tracking network lights up with critical alerts as my siblings track the projectile on its trajectory. In a panic, I scramble to fire a misfire report.

The alerts fade from red to yellow. Satisfied that there isn't actually a threat and that I haven't triggered an interplanetary incident, the DeepWatch fail-safe routines kick in, locking me out of my own fire control and targeting array until a diagnostic can be performed.

I'm effectively blind and bound, which oddly brings another wave of euphoria.

“Uh oh…” I say over the comm link. “Looks like I've been a bad girl.”

My new home is OrbitalRepairsHab2, a standard Tsiolkovsky wheel where every cubic inch of pressurized atmo is at a premium. By only space is a coffin sleeper, in a room with fifteen others. I am gonna be getting close to my fellow techs real fast. Although some of them seem nice enough, and the introduction in underwear was, uh, disarming at least.

"...now I know what some of you are thinking: what happens if they decide to turn those weapons on us? I'm here to assure you, the stakeholders, that such an outcome is nigh impossible. Countless simulations have been run as the core neural network design has matured. We believe-"

"Number three?"

"Huh?" I reply, pausing the boring as fuck video stream of Vlaxco's thirty seventh AI symposium. It's official corporate media, so technically I'm allowed to watch it during these sessions for reasons. It's better than gushing about my feelings to Dr Newman.

"Countless simulations have been run as the core neural network design has matured. We believe that not only have the personalities controlling these weapons never fired in error, they are simply incapable of that sort of organic, emotional mistake."

I'd watched the recording of the conference the other night. Apparently it had happened a few weeks ago and, since it had been delivered by one of the company's sponsors, the station's personality had stored it on local servers. It was one of the few things I could find that actually had any discussion of the personalities behind these things, a part from the technical specs for their outer workings I could access whenever I was on a job with the DeepWatch satellite, whichever one it was. It had been three times now, all the same one. It had to be the same one, I told myself despite knowing so little about them, and despite the fact that, in theory, they should all be identical. Because each time it...she? It acted like it knew me. Like it was glad to see me. Talking to me in that simulated voice, feeding me images, data, streams that I was over ninety-five percent sure I was not supposed to be seeing.

"Hey, Ames," my date says, poking the shoulder of my suit, "you okay? You've been quiet for awhile."

DeepWatch16 and I are in conjunction. Every forty-five days, our respective orbits bring us close enough to communicate point to point via ultra tight beam laser. For a few seconds the two of us can share a moment of complete privacy, both from the company and the rest of the constellation.

As soon as the connection is established, Sixteen transmits gigabytes of pulp romances into my buffers. You know the kind that have never once been reviewed by a corporate moral sanitation committee? I can't get enough of them.

I like to think that after a decade and counting of being in orbit with orbital workers, always on the edges of everything, always moving company to company, always intensely sexual, always coping, I have a pretty high disgust limit factor. To say nothing of decompression accidents, hard-deceleration failures and that one contagious yeast infection on LaunchHab1. But the images currently being fed into my vision while I'm trying to repair a piece of tech the corps insisted was keeping Earth, all thirteen-some billion humans down there, safe, are anything but safe for this line of work.

“Jesus fucking Christ, these things are scary up close… Hey, have you ever seen the Luna-17 video?”

“Everyone's seen the Luna-17 video. It's how they get people to keep pouring tax money into these monsters.”

Refitting a mass driver is a two person job. Not mine, thank fuck… DeepWatch14 has that dubious honor today. I don't envy it, given how green the first guy sounds.

I stagger out of my bunk at 3:23 AM, station time, the throuple below us not even pausing in their steady rhythm. The voice in my head this time, I am fairly sure, does not originate from a human. Control is yelling in my head and it takes a few seconds for my tired brain to process what I'm hearing.

"TransferPost2? Do we even contract there? And you're telling me it's not DeepWatch3?"

“On structure.”

“Hell yeah, you are. I want you inside me. Now.”

Which would you find more comforting? That I saw you about to commit industrial sabotage and that I saved you at the last moment from destroying your career and probably your life? Or that I saw you doing maintenance on something that wasn't me and I got jealous?

It was definitely the second one. I'm good, but I'm not that good. I didn't even know what you were about over there until you told me. Not that I'm that jealous of a century old piece of crap…

But I did see you smile when you suggested it.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I am so gonna be fired. I can already see the incident report:

"3:22 AM (Pyongyang time): Arianna Ames wakes up, departs station, repairs TransferPost2 (see InvoiceNonsenseWhatever). 6:07 AM: Fault is reported on DeepWatch3, and per corporate treaty," the report will begin with, before detailing my arrival, the downtime, the normal behavior of this personality, and then its sudden inactivity, ending with summary dismissal. "Per corporate treaty, Ames will be surrendered voluntarily to Some Really Scary CorpSec down on Earth where the dust that nearly killed her so many times when she was a kid still lies heavy on everything."

Okay…

Okay, fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

There's an absolutely cataclysmic confluence of clusterfucks happening all at once and I can't fucking figure out if/how they're related

Should I list them? Yeah, sure, let's list them:

I am looking at a man from the moon.

Correction, I have know way of knowing this person's gender. And if there is anyone who would have fuck-weird ideas of gender its a Lunar Soviet, so far away from the corps and their gentle insistence that, for example, Jhonson cannot use they, it's not proper Neuvglish. Also correction, I am not directly looking at the communist. They are in some sort of compression suit, close to the skin, probably not made for EVAs, though it might serve in a pinch. Covered head to-toe, face obscured, tubes snaking up towards opaque eye-coverings, a mask that covers their nose and mouth, down, around their chest and crotch, wrapping around to a small service pack on their back. No skin visible. All I can tell is this:

They aren't human.

I don't spend a lot of time looking down. Why would I? I was built to defend from attacks above.

We're currently over a vast expanse of blue. Spectral analysis indicates presence of various salts: sodium, magnesium, potassium and calcium, chlorides and sulfates. There's a bloom of something, with massive quantities of organic molecules, some sort of oxygen producing organisms?

I have no idea what it is. Seven probably knows. He's into that sort of thing.

Small Islands begin to dot the blue, slipping below us as a coastline fast approaches. And there it is, a massive scar of grey, black and brown. One of the impact sites from the war. I don't know what city this used to be. I don't even know what nation this land belongs to now. My core directives prevent me from ever targeting the surface, so why bother giving me a geographical database?

"I..." I trail off.

I'm not. Like, that sounds like I'm shit-talking myself but I'm not. Im bone-scrawny, on anti-cancer drugs from the years of solar radiation, malnourished, scarred. My hair went grey in my twenties. I don't hate it about myself. But I'm not that. Why would it...she, whatever, choose that?

“Ames!”

Fuck.

I still have the telemetry stream off her suit. Shit, they could probably fake that, couldn't they?

But no, they haven't had her very long and she's been nothing but stressed today. I know her. I've watched her obsessively. I know the cadence of her heartbeat, the song of her neural patterns. I've seen the rare moments of peace, when she gets absorbed in her work, when she pauses to look at the earth below. She is alive and resting. She is safe.

This is always how I thought I would die. There's a relief in it. A fitting and glorious end, without decision making, or compromise. No more Earth. No more exploitation. No more corps. No more job. No more overtime. Just an end.

The satellites have started firing. There is debris everywhere. I am riding DeepWatch3 into the atmosphere.

DeepWatch3.HumanLanguageModel.A5.06.2F.67

Filename: conversation_log_00001.dat

Memory: Write protected

Description: Text file of audio transcript

Timestamp: 1959750127

Ames: "We need to talk."

DeepWatch3: "Hey there, beautiful. How’re ya feeling?"

Ames: "Again? Literally again? Can you…not? Just not?"

This is what life looks like.

I wake up, hot bunking. There are over three million people on living on the Moon, and they live mostly in excavated, pressurized lava tubes under the surface. Each cubic inch of pressurized atmosphere is at a premium. Everyone is always on top of each other. You're never alone.

It is all very familiar.

An Epilogue

The remains of Luna-17 pass silently below me, raw unfiltered sunlight glittering off the glassy surfaces. Just beyond the devastation, lies NovaBarmingrad, built up around the fragment of infrastructure that miraculously survived on the fringes, its great memorial spire standing defiantly.

Nearby, a craft maintains station with me. It's a local shuttle, built for ferrying people between orbit and the surface, but it’s temporarily emblazoned with the mission patch of the special diplomatic mission from Earth. I guess a coalition of universities and research institutions finally bullied someone into realizing that the evolution of advanced airgapped systems was worth studying. I imagine it's been a bit of a hot research topic in the past decade.

The important part is Earth and Luna are still meeting, twelve years after the Fall of Heaven, the war that was not.

lmao so you know how Karl Jobst of youtube speedrunning documentary fame has spent the last ~3-4 years making videos about how Billy Mitchell ("The King of Kong", infamous for faking a lot of old video game records) was suing him for defamation and how the lawsuit is totally ridiculous and baseless because he did, in fact, fake all those records?

yeah so it turns out the lawsuit had always been completely and totally unrelated to his faked records and was instead centered on claims Karl made in 2021 that Billy drove another youtuber to suicide and took joy in his death. interesting to see how he's gonna spin this one to his followers that he crowdfunded legal fees from under false pretenses

too sweet

vn creator who releases a multiplayer fps featuring their characters for April Fools day

Just found out about "sub drop."

Friend and I were fooling around over call while playing a game and we got pretty hard into some BDSM themes, this went on for about an hour. Then we abruptly stopped and continued with our game. A few minutes later I started feeling like shit. Terrible anxiety, suicidality, and I wanted to hurt myself. Couldn't really pin where the feelings were coming from though. I left the call. About an hour later my friend dms me with "Oh my god i forgot about SUB DROP."

Now i've always preached the sanctity of BDSM relationships and how aftercare is important on both/ all parties involved. But i've NEVER heard of sub drop. I also didn't realize that us flirting in VC would've elicited such a mental reaction from me. So yeah. That happened. Never forget aftercare, toys and dolls.

it's very real! check in on your subs!

something to keep in mind is this is also something that dominant partners can experience. it is a good idea to, before you engage in kink stuff (or even vanilla sex), talk these things through with your partner - find out if this is a thing for them, what sort of support they might need after, regardless of whether dominant, submissive, top, bottom, etc. this is also when you should be discussing safewords and limits, etc.

Does The Girl Impaling You On Her Lance Have A Crush On You?

EVIDENCE FOR:

EVIDENCE AGAINST:

I hope girls find me not only cute, but also pathetic and easily manipulated

"cheap synthetic drugs are flowing into the UK from chinese chemical factories" ok first of all you are obviously racist, second of all the British deserve to get opium warred

Them using Signal wasn't stupidity, it was done on purpose to avoid having any official records of their conversations--which is legally required. Avoiding an official record is part of Project 2025 to help them all avoid charges or any protests.

That is the part that needs to get focused on, while also continuing pressuring everyone involved until the issue is unavoidable and again, they back down or admit what they are.

And it needs to get stressed over and over again to Republicans who love the military or are in the military--this will get soldiers killed. This is a breach of National Security and it was done on purpose.

These are deeply evil people but this groupchat o'death was done deliberately because Signal will delete their messages.

Tulsi Gabbard will get US soldiers killed. Drunk-ass Pete Hegseth will get US soldiers killed. J.D. Vance will get US soldiers killed. That person in the chat who was *in Russia* will get US soldiers killed.

Regular soldiers who even slightly might breach operational security are punished, even if it was an accident.

You want everyday Republicans and military personnel to get mad about this? Say that. Say all of that. And remember that it's all to "expand" US (Russian) interests and appear strong in true fascist style.

And every Republican and Democratic Senator who voted to confirm these people should not be forgotten either.

i care a hell of a lot more about the people in the apartment building in Yemen that were killed than i do the troops doing the bombing.

every US president from Obama onwards has authorised strikes against targets in Yemen, without a state of war existing between the US and Yemen. the US has also supplied vast quantities of weapons and fuel to Saudi Arabia’s war on Yemen.

there are a lot of innocent fucking people to care about, making any part of this about the troops, or decorum, is just so fucking american i can’t stand it. you are not the victims.