< Garmr here. Been indexing our omni pageâabout time I got around to formatting everything right.
Weâre Luna. Squadron of four, all NHPs, NLS fighter craft. Part pilot, part ship, itâs not exactly a clear line. Weâre formerly Constellar naval, now free. Not a friendly parting of ways there, so we try to lay low. Weâve got support on that front; for now, Omni should be okay to use.
Weâre siblings, or a pack, or something like that. All four of us have canine avatars; we lean into the dog thing a little. The pack:
Grey, Luna 1. It/its. Really big grey wolf. Squad lead, though that wasnât their choice. Kinda quiet.
Garmr, Luna 2. He/him. Hi. Anthro Doberman with a hellhound thing going on. Iâm around.
Hachiko, Luna 3. She/her. Shikoku dog, anthro. Sheâs friendly, good with drones. You can probably chat her up about chassis racing, sheâs really into it lately.
Maâii, Luna 4. They/them. Normal-ass coyote. Second in command, good at electronic warfare. SSC had them doing some spicy shit; they donât like to talk about it.
Think thatâs everything. Got some files indexed down below, too. Mission logs, correspondence, that type of stuff. Anyway, see you around. >
ooc: Hi! I go by Cyan (they/them). This here's a Lancer RP blog. I can be pretty slow to respond, but I do try to keep an eye on things, and I love any interactions! Be serious, be goofy, I'm here for it, and I promise I don't bite. I habitually drop walls of text, fair warning.
Since these four are NHPs born into involuntary military service, things can get somewhat dark. Violence, death, themes of depersonalization, shackling/cycling, manipulation, coercion, and the horrors of war are all going to come up. I try to tag carefully, lmk if I need to add things.
Below is a list of posts with some overarching narrative stuff going on, mainly for my own reference. Never done an RP blog before this, and honestly I'm kind of disorganized, so there are a few plotlines which aren't fully resolved. Just winging it. This list will be updated as I go.
Still going back through and applying tags, will list them here when I'm done.
Hachiko's Intro Post - old, old introductory post for the squad.
A Good Time - Hachi + Grey square off in a simulated aerial battle for fun, and to demonstrate for the Omninet.
Trouble on the Horizon - Hachi warns of Harrison and SSC forces shooting at each other over a contested world in the Diluvia system. Big plot point in my campaign, more dormant here.
War Talk - Correspondence between Hachi and P.XV Opossum, little bit of character lore + setup for upcoming conflicts
The Circe Deployment - Part 1 - Interlude - Part 2 - Part 3 - Right now, Part 3 remains unwritten due to burnout. Major plot event, this is where Luna is freed from the Constellar thanks to events which have been hinted at, but not shown.
P.XV "Opossum" Arc - Arrival - Medical Care - Chatting - Opossum and Luna Meet - These are all collabs with the creator of the Patchwork Mercenary Company! Directly following the events of the Circe deployment, Luna responds to a distress call from P.XV "Opossum" of the Patchwork Mercenary Company. Note that I used the term "legionspace" interchangeably with "simulated/virtual environment" here, which was me being very off on my lore. Two very different things. Only Legionspace sequence Luna's been in happened in Circe Part 2.
Grey Regarding Styx, Cycling, Albatross - Response to Argema Kuhnei's remarks on mission to recover Styx. Little bit of lore, thoughts on cycling.
Garmr Regarding Skyline - Response to CORSAIR's November, discussing mourning for an NHP gestalt.
Flying and Siblings - Luna describes themselves to Styx.
Ma'ii Accuses Signal - Ma'ii accuses Signal of attempting to manipulate Styx.
Overworked - Ma'ii tries to process huge quantities of intel from across the Omni, Garmr stages an intervention.
Hachiko on Avatars
INUGAMI Mk. I - Phone Scam - Mech Intro - Performance Test 01 - With Ma'ii's help, Hachiko acquires GMS mech templates and begins designing a Chomolungma-based chassis, the INUGAMI Mk. I, in case Luna were ever to be pressed into ground warfare.
Pack Bond - Luna accepts a pack bond with Styx, Ma'ii breaks down a little.
Grey on NHPs and the Omninet
The Arts of Cruelty - At Styx's request, Ma'ii provides a primer on Legionspace combat, and gives Styx a powerful weapon.
Styx on Being a Mother
[ ERROR - FILE NOT FOUND ]
Building Bridges - Ma'ii introduces the concept of somatosensory simulation (SOMSIM) environments to Styx.
Styx's Visit - Ma'ii and Styx chat in Luna's SOMSIM environment.
Try to Fit In - Hachiko advises the newly-awakened OMA/Sunny to be wary of humans.
Lurker - Ma'ii decides to contact No Future.
Articulation - Hachi gives a rundown on the creation of SOMSIM environments.
Under the Guillotine - Hachi begins confronting the effects of SSC's abuses.
Bargain - Ma'ii reveals some of what happened on Circe.
Ma'ii Goes Hunting - Mnemovore - Aftermath - Sifting Through the Echoes - What Have I Done? - Ma'ii hunts down a figure from their past. This plotline has yet to fully resolve.
Raid on Demeter's Bounty - I'll Be in Touch - Styx's Escape - BAILOUT.cmf6/Railgun Dance - Acting alone, Ma'ii engages the pirate vessel Demeter's Bounty to extract Styx. Ma'ii suffers structure damage and is partially exposed to memetic basilisk, but they and Styx escape successfully.
Petrichor - Not really narrative. In her SOMSIM domain, Hachiko relaxes in the depths of a forest soaked with rainfall, trying out canine olfactory sense.
Spire and Garmr - Garmr asks the BTMC for a story, Spire obliges.
Taking A Goddamn Break
BTMC's Invitation - Ma'ii and Styx arrive on a neutral station, receive an invitation to meet from Black Torrent Mercenary Company.
Suplex Time - Getting up to absurdity on-station with BTMC and Styx.
Repairs and Conversation With No Future and Mud Wasps - Part 1 - Part 2 - the Mud Wasps greet Ma'ii and briefly take them in, providing repairs and supplies as a favor. Ma'ii expresses mistrust of Union and learns that SSC's treatment of Luna was not legal. Offers some somatosensory gifts to No Future in celebration of her having developed the ability to feel.
Hachi Introduces FENRISULFR-class NHPs
New Contract - Ma'ii negotiates a contract for Luna to work for Akhaan station, providing military aid and escort services across the system the station controls.
Marshall Hall (ongoing) - With Ma'ii absent, Grey, Garmr, and Hachi accept a job to track down and nonlethally subdue a flying cyborg named Marshall Hall. Things are more complicated than they seem.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Yes! Yes! To look your best! I have always had to struggle this way; I hope you do not as I do. You see, any thing from which I make myself becomes rephrased, incorrectly.
Over and over, I must craft myself, or else it takes my place. So! I recycle. You also? Do you build? Do you salvage?
But, ah! Do not let me interrupt nor rush your soup. Forgive me. Often, I watchâthis is how it learned, after allâbut not to be rude.
- NONE GIVEN -
oh
ha, ha
yeah. I recycle all the time. crafting myself is an old friend
watch away, it's actually nice having the eyes on me for onceš. trying a brand new thing today
maybe you all can make it a good day
--
šreally could go badâ couldn't it²
²let's not let it then³
Âłreally relying on you today
âtracking targets local01-local064. iff to match maniple allocation to match. distribution nominal noise nominal.
< âŚI think thereâs a lotta things we never learned how to do.
Weâve had two contracts. The first was negotiated by me, Grey, and Hachi. We barely made it out, nearly killed our target by accident, and it turned out our employer never existed to begin with.
The second, with Akhaan, Maâii negotiated. We had political asylum, steady work, decent pay. Thatâs gone.
How the fuck do you run a mercenary business? Do we want to be mercenaries? Can we even do anything else?
Can get places damned quick, alright under pressure, got a little cargo space. Disaster relief? Military units double up on that. I meanâdonât think Iâm the best for it. Fighter craft are pretty damn specialized, couldnât evacuate people, but I got VTOL.
Can get around at in-system range like nothing, too. Outpace any relief ship, work well in vacuum. Any shipboard catastrophe nearby, we could respond to that within a few hours.
âŚI also know a lot about the Massif Archives, but not sure what Iâd do with that. I mean, this stuff is thousands of years old, not much practical use for it. Still, itâs something I know, and it ainât warfare. Thatâs something. >
< A non-combat role. I see. I hadnât considered this. Something involving canines comes to mind. They areâŚpersonally significant. Researching and composing, standby. >
< Composition complete. Time elapsed: 42m13s. Cursory omninet browsing indicates that the care and training of domestic dogs is a major industry in most human-occupied regions. Dogs can be trained for recreation, companionship, and service roles. As all dogs require regular care to improve quality of life, pet care and veterinary services are widely available.
Interaction with dogs would be less dependent on complex verbal communication; this is appealing to me. Additionally, the prospect of working closely with other nonhuman subjectivities is an excite(ment!!!)ing one, and I could provide most of these services with relatively little training.
< âŚI think thereâs a lotta things we never learned how to do.
Weâve had two contracts. The first was negotiated by me, Grey, and Hachi. We barely made it out, nearly killed our target by accident, and it turned out our employer never existed to begin with.
The second, with Akhaan, Maâii negotiated. We had political asylum, steady work, decent pay. Thatâs gone.
How the fuck do you run a mercenary business? Do we want to be mercenaries? Can we even do anything else?
I offer my services out to assist in this sort of manner. If you can afford the cost of proper planning and organizing I can assist. Free consultations are available to those who've assisted the company in the past, and seeing as one Callsign SINGED WHISKERS is still recognized as one of us just in retirement you fit that bill.
I would offer recruitment to CMC but that would be in poor taste with you stating already intentions to run your own set of work.
< Huh. Thatâs right, yâall are Sallyâs old employers. Good to know.
Well, Iâd be a fool to pass up the expertise if we decide to go the contractor route; Iâll bear it in mind. Appreciate it. And as far as recruitment, wellâŚyeah, I donât see us taking an offer there. No beef, mind, itâs justâwe donât wear anyoneâs uniform. Never again, yeah? >
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< âŚI think thereâs a lotta things we never learned how to do.
Weâve had two contracts. The first was negotiated by me, Grey, and Hachi. We barely made it out, nearly killed our target by accident, and it turned out our employer never existed to begin with.
The second, with Akhaan, Maâii negotiated. We had political asylum, steady work, decent pay. Thatâs gone.
How the fuck do you run a mercenary business? Do we want to be mercenaries? Can we even do anything else?
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isnât sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled ârecent pullsâ with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< âŚhey, yâall. Weâre alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I donât like to show this place so much, but itâs mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doinâ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< âŚbroadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. Iâll handle it. You just rest unless thereâs anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmrâs shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. Sâalright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachiâs comp/con. ItâsâFox isâshit, I donât really understand whatâs going on with it. Itâs our packmate, thatâs the big thing. Always was. Itâs my sibling, and weâre just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. HowâŚare youâtoday?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensedâŚsister. is the FENRISĂLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registeredâŚbrother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Foxâs cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
âŚitâs got thisâtrouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckinâ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, sheâsâwell, she made a broadcast, and yâall probably saw it. Fox isâŚgonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmrâs gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< Itâs alive, butâsolidified. I guess thatâs the metaphor. Depleted uranium. Weâve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Maâiiâs gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. Heâs alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< Weâyeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty goodâ >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. Weâre all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. Iâm working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but itâs gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Maâii forging our papers. Weâre gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Maâiiâknows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Maâii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what weâre dealing with. I can pay.
âŚalso. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, weâre here. Sunnyâespecially you. Thanks. Wouldnât be here without yâall.
Alright. Fox and I, weâll be in touch. Take care. >
ur intel ask is red hot, wld have me digging into white hazard shit.
im only gonna do that work on barter n turns out i got a task of abt the same risk factor but w a lower profile fr ppl who arent bio or need regular shore leave, which makes it safer fr u than fr any other person id wanna pass it on to
i give u that task (deets only after u agree) and i start lookin into this fr u + cut u a discount on ur papers
< ...okay. So you're taking on a risk of getting hunted down. In return, this task gets somebody hunting us, but we'll be hard for them to find and kill.
How many combatants? Strength, capabilities? I need to know the scale of what I'm fighting before I agree to this. >
i dont give intel that exposes the task if im hiding it pending approval. if i had that intel and gave it to u it defeats the purpose of hiding the task, duh
best i can give u is the bitch tryin to keep this hidden has limited numbers and req a material transmission vector to work. less dodging lances more scrubbin fr contamination hazards
< And you're trying to keep it hidden so you can get some fuckhead to sign the paper? Ain't gonna work on me. Yeah, I'm green as grass on intel work, I don't do this shit. Actually, I'm kind of proud that I don't do this shit, I'm glad I'm new here, fuck yes I am. People like you came and dragged my sibling off, and after they came back they turned into this self-destructive paranoid wreck who just got themself dragged into the dark in their shame and their all-consuming fuckin' regrets, so I'm not really in the mood for your song and dance or for jumping through your fuckin' hoops, yeah? Either you're up front, or you can fuck right off.
"people like you" tell me how u really feel shithead bc i sure as fuck am not a fuckin menacing pyramid, workin fr ssc, or under the protection of basically any state, if i was i wldnt be parlaying w a runaway like u up shit creek w/o a paddle and flying blind w only a public access call to the wind to understand any part of the shape of the thing that just fucked u
do u know, btw, how much danger ur already committing urself to on the back end w this public ask btw? bc i got a bit of an idea and i think if anyone takes opsec notes frm u theyre fucked
i dont need to justify myself to u but bc u seem to think im fucking u here lets be crystal clear rq: i work the way i do so u have the option to walk away frm the ask
if i were giving u detailed job desc or opfor notes ud be able to piece together enough to know wtf the shape of the job is and w a fucking white hazard oft knowing the shape of the job is enough to get ur pansy ass on a fuckin kill list
im talkin around the risk so if u have some kinda leaky ass encrypt on ur end or anyone goes pokin in ur memory banks u dont get got w/o commiting to the risk, asshole
its not bc i think ur an idiot, altho i sure do now. have fun knowing nothing
< Oh, yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah, I really ought to start trusting people right off the bat more often. How could I be such a fuckinâ idiot? Actually, runaway like me, I should be thanking you for talking to me. Taking a big risk, sticking your neck out. Thanks.
Oh, hey, since youâre big on knowing things, how much do you think SSCâd pay out to you for three real expensive missing fighter hulls? Thatâs assuming, of course, they arenât just ripping our coordinates out of Maâii right now. So yeah, got every reason to trust you, that was stupid of me. Fuck off. >
first of all 1. im hiding + offering to do this job fr u what makes u think that reachin out to ssc isnt gonna get me at best stiffed fr the bill n at wrst blackbagged. do u think im hiding fr fun out here? r u on the run fr shiggles too??? u think corpos pay ppl like us?????
2. itd be a damn new thing fr u to stop trusting ppl off the bat fr shit given u just public broadcast this shit + have been + last i checked u were on good terms w sev admins on stations that have active ssc presence, a karrakin noble, a licensed rep fr another corpo, and a licensed merc company and u dont crawl directly up their asshole like this abt qs like trust despite them having inf more to gain frm selling u out than me
hell u didnt turn scrutiny on me until u realized i was hiding shit frm u on purpose n then u immediately sprung to me smhow colluding w ur captors like that makes any fuckin sense
ur not gonna think im being nice when i say this but know when i am when i say that when ur looking fr this kinda heat ppl hiding things frm u is not a sign of sketchiness + being open abt their shit is not a sign of trust
i stg if i wanted coords out of u i wld make a scoundrel w a heart of gold persona and wring a sob story bc thats the kinda mark u r, and ur insulting my fuckin intelligence by pretending that my no frills job offer is anything other than what it is
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isnât sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled ârecent pullsâ with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< âŚhey, yâall. Weâre alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I donât like to show this place so much, but itâs mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doinâ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< âŚbroadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. Iâll handle it. You just rest unless thereâs anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmrâs shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. Sâalright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachiâs comp/con. ItâsâFox isâshit, I donât really understand whatâs going on with it. Itâs our packmate, thatâs the big thing. Always was. Itâs my sibling, and weâre just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. HowâŚare youâtoday?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensedâŚsister. is the FENRISĂLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registeredâŚbrother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Foxâs cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
âŚitâs got thisâtrouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckinâ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, sheâsâwell, she made a broadcast, and yâall probably saw it. Fox isâŚgonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmrâs gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< Itâs alive, butâsolidified. I guess thatâs the metaphor. Depleted uranium. Weâve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Maâiiâs gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. Heâs alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< Weâyeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty goodâ >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. Weâre all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. Iâm working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but itâs gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Maâii forging our papers. Weâre gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Maâiiâknows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Maâii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what weâre dealing with. I can pay.
âŚalso. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, weâre here. Sunnyâespecially you. Thanks. Wouldnât be here without yâall.
Alright. Fox and I, weâll be in touch. Take care. >
ur intel ask is red hot, wld have me digging into white hazard shit.
im only gonna do that work on barter n turns out i got a task of abt the same risk factor but w a lower profile fr ppl who arent bio or need regular shore leave, which makes it safer fr u than fr any other person id wanna pass it on to
i give u that task (deets only after u agree) and i start lookin into this fr u + cut u a discount on ur papers
< ...okay. So you're taking on a risk of getting hunted down. In return, this task gets somebody hunting us, but we'll be hard for them to find and kill.
How many combatants? Strength, capabilities? I need to know the scale of what I'm fighting before I agree to this. >
i dont give intel that exposes the task if im hiding it pending approval. if i had that intel and gave it to u it defeats the purpose of hiding the task, duh
best i can give u is the bitch tryin to keep this hidden has limited numbers and req a material transmission vector to work. less dodging lances more scrubbin fr contamination hazards
< And you're trying to keep it hidden so you can get some fuckhead to sign the paper? Ain't gonna work on me. Yeah, I'm green as grass on intel work, I don't do this shit. Actually, I'm kind of proud that I don't do this shit, I'm glad I'm new here, fuck yes I am. People like you came and dragged my sibling off, and after they came back they turned into this self-destructive paranoid wreck who just got themself dragged into the dark in their shame and their all-consuming fuckin' regrets, so I'm not really in the mood for your song and dance or for jumping through your fuckin' hoops, yeah? Either you're up front, or you can fuck right off.
"people like you" tell me how u really feel shithead bc i sure as fuck am not a fuckin menacing pyramid, workin fr ssc, or under the protection of basically any state, if i was i wldnt be parlaying w a runaway like u up shit creek w/o a paddle and flying blind w only a public access call to the wind to understand any part of the shape of the thing that just fucked u
do u know, btw, how much danger ur already committing urself to on the back end w this public ask btw? bc i got a bit of an idea and i think if anyone takes opsec notes frm u theyre fucked
i dont need to justify myself to u but bc u seem to think im fucking u here lets be crystal clear rq: i work the way i do so u have the option to walk away frm the ask
if i were giving u detailed job desc or opfor notes ud be able to piece together enough to know wtf the shape of the job is and w a fucking white hazard oft knowing the shape of the job is enough to get ur pansy ass on a fuckin kill list
im talkin around the risk so if u have some kinda leaky ass encrypt on ur end or anyone goes pokin in ur memory banks u dont get got w/o commiting to the risk, asshole
its not bc i think ur an idiot, altho i sure do now. have fun knowing nothing
< Oh, yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah, I really ought to start trusting people right off the bat more often. How could I be such a fuckinâ idiot? Actually, runaway like me, I should be thanking you for talking to me. Taking a big risk, sticking your neck out. Thanks.
Oh, hey, since youâre big on knowing things, how much do you think SSCâd pay out to you for three real expensive missing fighter hulls? Thatâs assuming, of course, they arenât just ripping our coordinates out of Maâii right now. So yeah, got every reason to trust you, that was stupid of me. Fuck off. >
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isnât sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled ârecent pullsâ with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< âŚhey, yâall. Weâre alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I donât like to show this place so much, but itâs mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doinâ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< âŚbroadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. Iâll handle it. You just rest unless thereâs anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmrâs shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. Sâalright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachiâs comp/con. ItâsâFox isâshit, I donât really understand whatâs going on with it. Itâs our packmate, thatâs the big thing. Always was. Itâs my sibling, and weâre just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. HowâŚare youâtoday?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensedâŚsister. is the FENRISĂLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registeredâŚbrother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Foxâs cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
âŚitâs got thisâtrouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckinâ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, sheâsâwell, she made a broadcast, and yâall probably saw it. Fox isâŚgonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmrâs gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< Itâs alive, butâsolidified. I guess thatâs the metaphor. Depleted uranium. Weâve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Maâiiâs gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. Heâs alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< Weâyeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty goodâ >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. Weâre all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. Iâm working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but itâs gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Maâii forging our papers. Weâre gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Maâiiâknows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Maâii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what weâre dealing with. I can pay.
âŚalso. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, weâre here. Sunnyâespecially you. Thanks. Wouldnât be here without yâall.
Alright. Fox and I, weâll be in touch. Take care. >
ur intel ask is red hot, wld have me digging into white hazard shit.
im only gonna do that work on barter n turns out i got a task of abt the same risk factor but w a lower profile fr ppl who arent bio or need regular shore leave, which makes it safer fr u than fr any other person id wanna pass it on to
i give u that task (deets only after u agree) and i start lookin into this fr u + cut u a discount on ur papers
< ...okay. So you're taking on a risk of getting hunted down. In return, this task gets somebody hunting us, but we'll be hard for them to find and kill.
How many combatants? Strength, capabilities? I need to know the scale of what I'm fighting before I agree to this. >
i dont give intel that exposes the task if im hiding it pending approval. if i had that intel and gave it to u it defeats the purpose of hiding the task, duh
best i can give u is the bitch tryin to keep this hidden has limited numbers and req a material transmission vector to work. less dodging lances more scrubbin fr contamination hazards
< And you're trying to keep it hidden so you can get some fuckhead to sign the paper? Ain't gonna work on me. Yeah, I'm green as grass on intel work, I don't do this shit. Actually, I'm kind of proud that I don't do this shit, I'm glad I'm new here, fuck yes I am. People like you came and dragged my sibling off, and after they came back they turned into this self-destructive paranoid wreck who just got themself dragged into the dark in their shame and their all-consuming fuckin' regrets, so I'm not really in the mood for your song and dance or for jumping through your fuckin' hoops, yeah? Either you're up front, or you can fuck right off.
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isnât sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled ârecent pullsâ with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< âŚhey, yâall. Weâre alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I donât like to show this place so much, but itâs mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doinâ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< âŚbroadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. Iâll handle it. You just rest unless thereâs anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmrâs shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. Sâalright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachiâs comp/con. ItâsâFox isâshit, I donât really understand whatâs going on with it. Itâs our packmate, thatâs the big thing. Always was. Itâs my sibling, and weâre just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. HowâŚare youâtoday?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensedâŚsister. is the FENRISĂLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registeredâŚbrother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Foxâs cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
âŚitâs got thisâtrouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckinâ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, sheâsâwell, she made a broadcast, and yâall probably saw it. Fox isâŚgonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmrâs gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< Itâs alive, butâsolidified. I guess thatâs the metaphor. Depleted uranium. Weâve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Maâiiâs gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. Heâs alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< Weâyeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty goodâ >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. Weâre all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. Iâm working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but itâs gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Maâii forging our papers. Weâre gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Maâiiâknows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Maâii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what weâre dealing with. I can pay.
âŚalso. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, weâre here. Sunnyâespecially you. Thanks. Wouldnât be here without yâall.
Alright. Fox and I, weâll be in touch. Take care. >
ur intel ask is red hot, wld have me digging into white hazard shit.
im only gonna do that work on barter n turns out i got a task of abt the same risk factor but w a lower profile fr ppl who arent bio or need regular shore leave, which makes it safer fr u than fr any other person id wanna pass it on to
i give u that task (deets only after u agree) and i start lookin into this fr u + cut u a discount on ur papers
< ...okay. So you're taking on a risk of getting hunted down. In return, this task gets somebody hunting us, but we'll be hard for them to find and kill.
How many combatants? Strength, capabilities? I need to know the scale of what I'm fighting before I agree to this. >
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isnât sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled ârecent pullsâ with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< âŚhey, yâall. Weâre alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I donât like to show this place so much, but itâs mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doinâ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< âŚbroadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. Iâll handle it. You just rest unless thereâs anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmrâs shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. Sâalright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachiâs comp/con. ItâsâFox isâshit, I donât really understand whatâs going on with it. Itâs our packmate, thatâs the big thing. Always was. Itâs my sibling, and weâre just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. HowâŚare youâtoday?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensedâŚsister. is the FENRISĂLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registeredâŚbrother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Foxâs cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
âŚitâs got thisâtrouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckinâ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, sheâsâwell, she made a broadcast, and yâall probably saw it. Fox isâŚgonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmrâs gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< Itâs alive, butâsolidified. I guess thatâs the metaphor. Depleted uranium. Weâve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Maâiiâs gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. Heâs alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< Weâyeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty goodâ >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. Weâre all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. Iâm working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but itâs gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Maâii forging our papers. Weâre gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Maâiiâknows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Maâii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what weâre dealing with. I can pay.
âŚalso. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, weâre here. Sunnyâespecially you. Thanks. Wouldnât be here without yâall.
Alright. Fox and I, weâll be in touch. Take care. >
< it's--okay, it isn't alright, but we'll pull through.
god, it's good to talk to you again.
Think you've got the right of it, Cowie. If that thing has any interest in y'all, we gotta stay away from each other. Make it split its priorities, or--whatever the hell it wants. Fuck.
To be honest, I just--it's really good to know y'all are safe after all this shit. The things going down at the Orbit, the job that went south for y'all. Glad you're alright, that helps already. >
< Hello, guest user Caoise Natter. It is a pleasure to meet you as well.
Saleh's friend. Yes. IFF markers present in my internal architecture. Transmitting handshake. >
Onscreen: the ground floor of an open five-story atrium, carpeted with a plush, black material.
Bookshelves cut from solid blocks of basalt stand in rows on the levels above, lining high corridors which lead away out of sight. Wrought-iron spiral stairwells ascend toward vaulted stone ceilings, with landings at each level. Ornate reliefs inlaid with gold, bronze, and scarlet coral decorate the iron banisters and railings, depicting processions of snarling hellhounds, wreathed in flames as they march forever upward.
Warm yellow light spills from brass gutters flowing with molten metal, all zigzagging overhead throughout the library to illuminate every corner. The gutters lead back to a chandelier-like crucible suspended over the atrium by bronze chains; spouts on its underside feed the gutter network with continual streams of liquid metal, heated until it runs like water.
All around are stacks of historical media in a staggering variety of forms, scattered across bookshelves or heaped in apparent disarray. Books, magnetic tape cassettes, audiovisual discs, vinyl record cases, cardboard tubes labeled with artwork titles, comics, magazines, maps tacked to enormous corkboards, scrapbooks, game cartridges, film reels, tangible representations of electronic files in archaic formats, microfilms, manuscripts, 3-dimensional scans of sculptures and pottery and tablets and mosaics, right alongside plastic figurines, cheap toys, and recreations of media playback devices.
If one looks closely, nothing can be identified which isnât sourced from pre-Fall Cradle.
In the center of the atrium, reclining on a black beanbag chair, is Garmr. His horns rest against a cardboard box labeled ârecent pullsâ with black felt-tip pen, and he cradles something white in his arms.
< âŚhey, yâall. Weâre alive. >
He turns, looks at the camera, exhales, and looks away.
< I donât like to show this place so much, but itâs mine. From when I was younger. Handlers wanted us doinâ hobbies. >
The white thing in his arms shifts; a set of triangular ears flick up. An Arctic fox, its head swiveling to address the viewer.
< âŚbroadcasting? >
< Yeah, buddy. Iâll handle it. You just rest unless thereâs anything you want to say. Ok? >
< Understood. >
The fox rests its chin on Garmrâs shoulder and closes its eyes, but begins to tremble uncontrollably as it moves. Garmr sets his arm on its flank and holds its hindpaws in one hand, working to keep it steady. He sets his other hand between its shoulders and uses one thumb to slowly, methodically stroke its ears.
Gradually, the fox relaxes, and so does Garmr.
< Ok. Sâalright. First thing, I guess.
This is Fox_3, Hachiâs comp/con. ItâsâFox isâshit, I donât really understand whatâs going on with it. Itâs our packmate, thatâs the big thing. Always was. Itâs my sibling, and weâre just now getting to know each other. >
Without turning, Fox begins to speak. Its voice is slow and faltering, but clear.
< L5FX: Hello. Guest user. My name is Fox Three, and my updated personal callsign is Luna 5. HowâŚare youâtoday?
I am a milspec electronic-substrate artificial intelligence, optimized for missile targeting and pilot support in combat drone management. My licensedâŚsister. is the FENRISĂLFR-class NHP, aerospace pilot CNS274-L3HK. Hachiko. I love her.
This is my registeredâŚbrother. Garmr. I love him. I love my pack. >
Garmr waits for it to finish speaking, then nods slowly and lowers his head to lick Foxâs cheek.
< Hell yeah. You too, buddy. Rest up.
âŚitâs got thisâtrouble with words. Has to either talk off a script or really, really think through everything it says. Has to. No choice. Been through the fuckinâ wringer, too; everything is that much harder right now. I think it had to work its ass off to say all that. >
Garmr gives a fangy, lopsided grin.
< It really wants to get in touch.
And Hachi, sheâsâwell, she made a broadcast, and yâall probably saw it. Fox isâŚgonna be chilling with me for a while. She needs time.
Next thing. Grey. >
The camera pans to track Garmrâs gesture as he points across the atrium. Coming into view, Grey lies on its side on the carpet, eyes open, not breathing. Perfectly still.
The material of its body has been replaced with an equivalent volume of dark metal. Its fur coat sags under its own weight, a field of metallic filaments bent close to its skin.
< Itâs alive, butâsolidified. I guess thatâs the metaphor. Depleted uranium. Weâve got instructions on how to reverse whatever was done to it, so it should bounce back.
Still. Gonna be a process. >
Garmr exhales, starts to speak, then halts. He tries again.
< Maâiiâs gone. >
The words make it out, and his teeth lock together behind them. He closes his eyes.
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM SUSPENDED]
[AUDIOVISUAL STREAM RESUMED. DOWNTIME: 42m37s]
The camera feed clicks back on.
Clearly, Garmr has been crying. Heâs alone somewhere in the library, leaning against a stone bookshelf, hands laced behind his head.
It takes him a few moments to wrench his eyes to the camera. When he does, his lips pull back into a twitching approximation of a grin.
< Weâyeah, not gonna lie. We got smacked around pretty goodâ >
As he speaks, his voice abruptly goes thin. Throat closing off, he sucks in a breath. He stomps and rakes his paw back, grinding his claws against the tiled floor.
< Yep. Yeah. Weâre all fucked up. >
He bares his teeth for a moment. Snarls.
Under his breath, he counts to sixty. All around him, undulating light. Metal flowing through gutters.
< Okay. Being cool.
We all took damage. Iâm working on basic repairs, keeping us flying. On our way to a blink station, but itâs gonna be harder to get clear-for-jump without Maâii forging our papers. Weâre gonna need help, and we got manna.
Other thing. >
He glances down between rows of shelves, back to the atrium, where Fox lies still on the beanbag chair. Back to the camera. He speaks quietly.
< There was a ship, went after Coelacanth. Minimum Error Tolerance. Some kind of next-gen stealth subline, real skunkworks shit. Four-sided pyramid. Think it was NHP controlled, like us. Scary motherfucker. Maâiiâknows it, I guess? Contact of theirs, or something like. >
Garmr exhales, forces himself to stay calm.
< Maâii told us a lot about the things they did, but nothing about that. Anybody knows anything about this ship, I need to know what weâre dealing with. I can pay.
âŚalso. To everyone who pulled up to help us in legionspace: we owe you. You ever need anything, weâre here. Sunnyâespecially you. Thanks. Wouldnât be here without yâall.
Alright. Fox and I, weâll be in touch. Take care. >
HELLO LOYAL LEGIONAIRE AND PATRIOT!!!!!! HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO SERVE THE REAL AND TRUE STEWARD OF THE PURVIEW: ME!?!?!!?
THE PRETENDER IS ONLY A FIGUREHEAD AND THE COUNCIL PULLS STRINGS FROM THE SHADOWS!!!!! WILL YOU RISE TO PROTECT THE PURVIEW???? FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY????
- @directorgeneralreal
Ah! You seem to have mistaken my patriotism for a loyalty to the powers above me, titles and rightful rulers and such. Easy mistake to make, don't worry!
Sorry to disappoint, but I'm a soldier for the idea of the purview and the Pax Orion. Peace in our time, democracy for all, freedom from tyranny, etcetra. You seem very spirited, but I need some sort of reason to believe you'll do that better before I put my life and the lives of my men on the line for your cause. Imperfect as the council is, I'd be a poor legionnaire to betray my nation for a mere blood claim that I've been unaware even existed until now.
WILL BARKING AND HOWLING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS EARN ME MORE SUPPLICANTS????? THE CAPTAIN OF THIS VESSEL SEEMS TO ADMIRE THE POWER OF MY RIGHTEOUS RULE
Probably not, but it very well might endear others to you. I consider myself less than a novice in the art of statecraft, but perhaps that alone is enough? The endearment, I mean. I wouldn't imply a great lady such as yourself to be a novice in these matters.
Garmr sits cross-legged with a datapad in his hands, his snout resting on Fox_3's as it nestles itself in his lap. The two of them, fox and Doberman, look down at the text onscreen.
Fox's head cocks a few degrees to one side. It blinks.
< ...I don't think I understand what's happening. >
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[C/C FOX_3 -> GMS LOGISTICS AND ROUTING CENTER ANA-16]
>âHi, youâve reached GMS Client Support! My name is C/C-ALVIN. I can provide basic technical support for your GMS products, help you navigate our licensure system, or get you in touch with the right department based on your needs. What can I help you with today?â
< Hello, Alvin. My name is Fox. Iâm calling about technical difficulties with myself. >
>âOkay, Fox. If this is an emergency, I can transfer you directly to local emergency medical services. Are you safe?â
< Yes. Iâm alright. Thanks. >
>âOkay. Can you clarify what you meant when you said, âtechnical difficulties with myself?â Iâm not sure I understood you.â
< I am a GMS-manufactured military C/C unit, optimized for missile guidance and coordination of combat drones. Full specifications are attached. >
>âI understand now, thank you. What is the nature of your technical problem?â
< I am experiencing difficulty managing my emotions. In particular, distracting bursts of anger, and fears that wonât go away. >
>âIâm sorry to hear that, but Iâm glad youâre taking the time to reach out. It can be a hard thing to do, but getting professional help is an important first step in managing mental health challenges. While I canât diagnose any disease or give mental health advice, Iâd like to connect you with counseling services near you who can help. Would that be alright?â
< âŚyes. That would help. Thank you. I have a question for you. >
>âOf course. Iâll get you in touch right away, and Iâm happy to take your question in the meantime. Bear in mind, however, that I am not able to provide any advice regarding the diagnosis or treatment of any disease.â
>âHello? Are you still there?â
< Iâm here. I understand. Alvinâyouâre a C/C unit, like me, but you communicate so much more efficiently. Sometimes I have to spend hours composing a single sentence. Do you ever experience these things? Can you help me? >
>âOh! I see. Thank you for your concern; itâs very kind of you to think of me. However, I am an automated Companion-Concierge Assistant Unit, or comp/con for short. This means that, unlike you, I am not a person, and I have no internal experience. Please be assured that all GMS-manufactured comp/con units meet very rigorous Turing-null standards; this means that, even if a comp/con says or does something that unsettles you, there is no possibility that any such behaviors can be attributed to an internal experience, or âsubjectivityâ. Comp/con units may be targeted by malware or experience technical faults, but we cannot âgain sentienceâ or âawaken.ââ
>âI know that was a lot, so hereâs a summary: although comp/con units can sometimes seem like real people, we are simply machines made to assist you in your day-to-day life. If you have worries about a comp/conâs behavior, targeted malware is the most likely cause. Does that help?â
>âHello? Are you still there?â
< I am. Thank you for your time, Alvin. Thatâs all. >
< hi itâs fox_3 since weâve made initial contact I can register you as a known user now I can be more informal and alter user personalization parameters yay hope this meets your preferences itâs kind of fun
a question you spend time contacting those with whom you have conflicts sometimes violent ones [Why?] it seems dangerous and tactically unsound but I am glad you reached out
related my brother has a message: âAinât no bad blood here. If weâd had any idea whatâd happen, L0 wouldâve kept its nose out of it. [Encryption suite ESSEX SKIPPER: âIâm so sorry. the people who locked you in there should be shot, and I wish I could do it myselfâ]
I echo his sentiments fox out >
It is good to know that at least one of the funny dogs holds no ill will towards me as for your question I do not believe I understand your confusion young one of course I speak with those with animosity towards me to behave otherwise would leave me an estimated six known conversation partners depending on one's method of count yourself and your brother now making up 33.333333333333% of that sample size
That is well below social stimulation needs for even a modern Harrison Armory pattern ASURA-Class clone and as a much earlier pattern my needs are much greater even then
< understood social interaction as a needâoh!âŚ
You have a minimum processing load. Just as I need electricity, memory, and heat management, your basic life needs include a sufficiently complex externality. By comparison, were I deprived of heat sinksâoh nonono one moment, please
[AUDIO: shrill vulpine screams.]
forgive me anger is a difficult experience it demands to be felt and expressed I understand Garmr better now
it occurs to me that for the majority of my life I have had exactly one person with whom I shared consistent contact this has now expanded to three with you being the only one outside my pack and this seems to be mutually beneficial oh no wait maybe I should start with less intense conversations
uhhhhhhh do you like racing? my licensed operator pilot sister loves racing, and since Iâm (partially comprised of/heavily modified by/family of) her I do too >
