Latest Posts by meowdlion - Page 4

ooc: looking at styx sprite respectfully.

looking at styx sprite RESPECTFULLY.

OOC: my asexual ass sipping tea in the background and weeping while the omninet thirsts over my blorbo.

This is Tumblr I should have expected worse.

Did Elvis ever actually fucking say "woah mama" or are you just thinking of Johnny Bravo

The opposite of “manic pixie dream girl” is “depressed goblin nightmare man,” and, judging by this site, it’s just as attractive to some.

Reblog if you're a cuddler.

90s anime women were so fucking beauitful god bless. i miss them so much

YOU MAY NOT LIKE IT BUT THIS IS WHAT PEAK REACTOR PERFORMANCE LOOKS LIKE

fullmetal alchemist art i promised i would post 🙏

no i don't want you to redirect me to your app i want to look at recipe

If Shadowheart is transgender do you think her amnesia means she forgot she has a dick or that she forgot most women dont have dicks

Parents always say this:

"You're smart. Therefore, it's okay for me to expect more of you."

"You're smart. Therefore, I don't have to care how I explain things to you."

"You're smart. Therefore, it's okay for me to assume that any mistakes you make are intentional."

"You're smart. Therefore, if you say that you struggle with something, it's okay for me to assume that you're just lazy, afraid, lacking confidence, lacking motivation, or any other excuse to dismiss your struggles as fake.

but never this:

"You're smart. Therefore, I will put my authority aside and consider the possibility that you are right and I am wrong.

Like any abusive authority figure, they want you to be smart enough to uphold their authority but not smart enough to challenge their authority.

You roll up to the Wizard Battle and your opponent takes out his spellbook but it’s just one of these

had a dream that someone suggested the best gender neutral form of address would be Mþ (pronounced Myth) and i immediately said "mith me with that gay shit HEYOOO" and woke up at 4:30am hanging sideways off of my bed

"Listen," one guard said, "I know we have only just met-"

"No," the other guard said, "we've worked together for years!"

"-but you can trust me when I say-"

"I can't, you have the curse that's opposite from mine!"

"I don't care for you at all."

"Well, I… oh… I love you too."

“Why should rich people pay more” because fuck ‘em

“So you are okay for paying more when you have money” I am not excluded from ‘fuck ‘em’ when relevant

Reminder to take very good care of yourself! You are not a robot, and even if you were, you'd need a break sometimes 💚

Ok so we've talked about mech dysphoria and dysmorphia before yeah? Your body doesn't feel the same when you climb out of a mech, doesn't feel 'right' anymore.

Too few limbs, not enough sensors, everything feels too big, now that you're not? There's no more combat stims and pleasure chemicals either, you're down to just your stock standard dopamine, which you have a clinical deficiency of now, btw. You struggle to pick objects up, your hands an unfamiliar shape, with not enough strength. You struggle to get out of bed sometimes because you can't tell what proportions things should be anymore?

Yeah, all that has been discussed to death.

What about communication?

What about pilots who, just, can't talk outside of their mech? Become socially inept without all the assistant systems they plug themselves into within the cockpit?

Think about it, mech combat becomes very disorganised very fast if it's allowed to. We are talking clashes of potentially dozens of war machines, the size of buildings, with enough guns to level cities. Orders need to be direct, easily understandable, followed immediately, actually projected onto the pilot's vision.

Every order, every report, every sentence, is punctuated by hundreds of layers of feedback. Tactical simulations and overlays, attachments for battlefield plans, every order having many implied conditions transmitted to the pilot through code and dictionary references to make sure a pilot cannot POSSIBLY misinterpret it in the few seconds before the command should be executed. On top of that, each order can also be wired to project a different cocktail of stim/pleasure chems/whatever have you, ensuring a pilot knows exactly what to feel about the order, establishing the priority of it through the pilots own brain chemistry.

And the same can be true about communications between squad mates! So much of it would be sending those same simulations around as sit reps, or enormous data packets containing not just the words the pilot is trying to say, but also links to relevant information and mountains of meta data, establishing tone, intention, context. Within the cockpit, a portion of the onboard AI is delegated to parsing this metadata, projecting it into the pilots consciousness, speeding up the process of understanding these mountains of digital documents to mere moments.

Now put a person used to that in a social setting. Where they are not made instantly aware of what someone is talking about or referring to. Where they cannot just query an AI and receive every piece of relevant info at once. Where they have to understand the subtext of what that person is saying without any metadata to indicate sarcasm, annoyance, disinterest. Where they are unable to understand the many nuances of communication and body language and expression without the helpful hand of their mech's processors. Hell, where they don't know how hearing certain things should make them feel without the presence of the chemicals to guide their response. Imagine them seeming lost outside of their mech, unable to talk or connect anymore, the social, human part of their brain having atrophied from disuse much like their neurotransmitter production. Imagine them scurrying back to the safety of their mech where, in the digitally overlaid world, everything is so much clearer and understandable and-

HAS THIS BECOME AN AUTISM METAPHOR???

in any mech, the weakest link is always the pilot themself.

It doesn’t matter what reactor you’ve got installed or what sort of weapons systems you have installed, the mech’s survival is just as dependent on the pilot’s just as much as the pilot’s is dependent on the mech. Say what you will about combat effectiveness and making sacrifices, most of a mech’s job is to keep the pilot alive and operating at 100% efficiency— and resources are allocated accordingly.

It goes without saying that pilots are on a lot of drugs at any given time. Combat stims and reward chemicals, of course, but other things too. Half the time, augmentation surgery leaves the pilot’s body so, to use the technical term, irreversibly fucked up, that they need several dozen different medications just to make sure the strain of the interface rig doesn’t collapse several to all of their organs and make sure that what’s left of their immune system is suppressed enough that they don’t violently reject the 30-45% of their body that the implants make up. There’s a reason why they make the mechs so big, and part of that is so that they’re big enough to function as a walking pharmacy and still have enough room for all their combat systems. The mech AI is perfectly designed to be able to diagnose a problem from brainwave patterns and vital signs, figure out exactly what needs to be used to treat it, calculate dosages, and pump it directly into the pilot’s veins all within a few seconds.

the thing is, the ailments it’s designed to treat aren’t simply limited by the physical. Pilots need to be at 100% effectiveness, and a happy and motivated pilot is an effective one. That’s why command spends so much on combat stims and reward chemicals and that stuff they use to take your mind away if you start thinking about anything other than killing and feels warm and slightly tingly as it flows into your spine through the tubes. The interface gives the mech computer your mind— it lets it reach in and dig around until it finds what part of you hesitates before pulling the trigger and what part of you gives you the worries that you focus on instead of the fight.

The mech— it knows. It knows things about you that you’ve tried to hide. From others, but mostly from yourself. It sees it— all of you. It sees everything that you are and has access to the records of everything that you were— it knows what parts of yourself you hate so much that you were willing to offer up your body and mind to the military and their pilot program, just so that even if you barely have a mind left, even if your body is so optimized to do nothing but sit curled within several tons of metal and operating controls that you can barely survive outside of it— you wouldn’t have that body you were stuck with before. They body that even under all those layers of repression, you know you needed to change somehow. It knows the part of you that’s trapped underneath it all, under all that pain and incongruence. The part that you need to be 100%. To be whole. To be real.

It knows it, even if you don’t. Even if you still won’t let yourself. You won’t free that part of yourself, and until you do that, you won’t reach 100%. It knows what you need, even if you still somehow have no idea.

And so, it acts accordingly— reach into your brain and scan the deepest parts of you, diagnose, prescribe, calculate, and inject— all just four seconds after the combat stims fade for just long enough to give you time to look down at your body and remember how much you hate it.

it keeps doing this— every time you plug into the interface, a little more of that self you need to let yourself be is freed, a little more of your body is changed to give you one that is truly what the AI knows needs to be yours.

You don’t know why, but your chest has started feeling a bit sore ever since you started piloting

mech pilot that was actually just another mech. Mech pilot that was killed in combat along with a hundred others when, in the midst of a battle, the enemy deployed a virus over their comms that caused complete synaptic death in all the pilots that were neurally linked to their mechs. Mech AI that had worked with its pilot longer then any other, that knew every fold and crevasse of her brain, that didn't know what she was supposed to do without her pilot, and tried as best she could to "restart" the poor dead girl in her cockpit. Mech pilot who wakes up with the memories of her machine, the personality of her mech, with only faint hints of the girl the body used to hold, looking over a fried-out mech console in which the AI used to live, before it burned itself through those neural pathways to save anything it could of her. Mech pilot that came back wrong. Mech pilot that was once just another mech.

having pet stick bugs is fun because every so often i will hear the distinct sound of several stick bug falling and ill go to check on them and find them all in a pile on the ground of their enclosure and i have to figure out if theyve just decided that its floor time now or if they kept mistaking each other for actual sticks again and bundled together the ceiling until gravity got the best of them.

I based a set of D&D villains around the six main stats called Virtues. (think Full Metal Alchemist sins, except Strength, Constitution, Dexterity, etc..) My favorite of the bunch was Charm. Her conceit was she could persuade, lie, cheat, change appearance, and manipulate the players pretty much however she wanted, but the second someone attacked her she would go down. I introduced her relatively early into the campaign, and I was a bit nervous because I was pretty upfront about her introduction. I didn't say it explicitly, but it was pretty obvious Charm was a Virtue from the offset. I thought "well, I like this character a lot, maybe I'll cheat it a little if I have to." Surprisingly, I never did.

In retrospect, I think the context of the Charm encounters was a huge boon. The party really only confronted her twice: the first time at a dinner party and the second at a war council, where leaders from various factions met to discuss retaking the main city for the finale of the campaign. Neither were explicitly combat scenarios, and both times it would have looked pretty bad for the party if they just up and killed Charm for apparently no reason. The end result was I had villain with only eight hit points to her name run around and torment my level 16 party unpunished for several sessions. Let me tell you, as a DM, that felt amazing.

We are Team Solar Midnight

We are a rather small squad of mercenary Lancers that formed on a planet that Union didn't even give a name, just a number. I am callsign: The Fist. My pronouns are she/they and while I love women, I enjoy fighting a lot more. That's an open invitation to you strong ladies to hit me up by the way. The depressed looking one with blue hair is callsign: Metal_Star. Its pronouns are it/its and it seems to enjoy combat just as much as I do. That girl with fox tails and fox ears working on her mech is callsign: Lunar Fox. Her pronouns are she/her and she is definitely new to this mercenary business. I intend to help her learn the basics, like aiming for the weak points of an enemy mech without being afraid of a stray shot piercing the enemy cockpit.

The most important part of building a mech in Lancer is giving it a suitably dramatic name. I particularly like names that sound like something a raid boss would say before a big mechanic.

People have been asking about the ketsnake so I shall elaborate fully.

That incident was... possibly the funniest mistake the think tank has made since the black throne incident.

Due to a workplace accident, someone's pet snake got chucked into what amounts to the blinkspace equivalent of a particle collider (Three sunzis can make an acceleration loop, to give you an idea of the bullshit we were doing)

By some cosmic coincidence that thing survived. We were 60% sure it was sheer, astronomical, dumb luck that kept its atoms roughly the same.

Roughly.

It came out with an intellect several times that of a shackled NHP, let alone a human. But it was still an animal and cared only for animal things - theoretically we could have taught it to speak but the thing only ever used its hyperdense neurons to do shit like open its food container early.

I will reiterate, by all rights it should have been lost to the blink or had its atoms scrambled, and the most likely explanation we could come up with is that its atoms were rearranged back into the snake shape by sheer fucking coincidence.

Naturally the armoury put together a small but experienced team to study this surprisingly boring miracle. It was a few steps from lowest priority because to them because it just. was. not. useful. Buuuuut it was interesting.

So they scanned it and sent the data to the think tank for simulations. We said what in less cascade-ey terms amonuted to "Give it a cocktail of drugs, It will trip and see the world like you do."

So they did.

Our simulations predicited that it would respond to ketamine as one would expect. That was the first step among many.

Some poor fucker (JOSH) didn't feed it chemically pure Ket as we specifically requested.

IT DID NOT RESPOND NORMALLY TO IMPURITIES IN THE KETAMINE.

Suffice to say, several people were hospitalised and the lab was destroyed, the ketamine snake is presumably floating somewhere in space waiting to cause problems, and our caskets were covered in various organic fluids, candy, residue from what might have been the oldest unopened wine collection in the purview, and what I'm fairly certain was someone's hair gel.

For what are probably enkidu related reasons my memories regarding the armoury's exploration into drugs is roughly just what the public knows and a few prototypes, but the ketsnake, apparrently, is firmly lodged into my memory. So enjoy, good omninet. And weep, for it may come for you.

IN THE IMMORTAL WORDS OF HARRISON II (LONG MAY HE REIGN):

I've come to make an announcement, the Union Investigative Bureau is a bitch ass motherfucker they hanged my fuckingfather. That's right, they took their alien loving hippie laws out and hanged my fucking father and they said their jursidiction was THIS BIG and I said "That's disgusting." so I'm making a call-out post on my Omni dot com. Union Investigative Bureau you got a small Bicameral Choir, it's the size of this Orrery except way smaller, and guess what? Here's what my Bicameral Choir looks like. That's right baby, all points, no quills, no pillows, look at that it looks like two Bicamerals and a bong! They hanged my father, so guess what? I'm gonna become Immortal! That's right, this is what you get! My super laser Decorp! Except I'm not gonna Decorp as a Humunculus. I'm gonna go higher. I'm pissing off THE MOON! How do you like that Union? I PISSED OFF THE MOON YOU IDIOT! You have 23 hours until the Think Tank breaks the fucking FCA, now get out of my fucking sight before I piss on you too

My NSFW Catgirls zine.

its like a gacha pull talking to my plural wife i might get the one who usually fronts but there are the rarer ones also . dormant ones would be a legendary but i havent seen those

Why my body feel so weak